


the fury

by nymja



Series: the fury [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: #StormlandSquad, AU after 8x5 because Ours Is The Fury this season, Dysfunctional Family Roadtrip, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Found Family, Gendry-centric, Political Marriage: Jon/Dany, Politics, Queen Daenerys, Stormlands OCs, major character death is not gendry or arya, the stormlands are a kingdom of bros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2020-03-06 05:55:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 30
Words: 108,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18844990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: None of it’s worked out how he thought it would: he’s in love, but she won’t marry him. He’s legitimized, but none of his family's alive. He’s a Lord, but he doesn’t know how to read or write. And now he’s a Baratheon. One allied to the Targaryen Queen who just brought all of King’s Landing to the ground.Above everything, Gendry needs help.One day, it rides in on a white horse.





	1. prologue: fire and blood

**Author's Note:**

> so this fic is going to straight-up ignore anything that happens in the finale, and begin after 8x5: The Bells. a couple notes:
> 
> -Daenerys is queen, but i'm not going to shy away from her basically blowing up a city  
> -I'm new to the Lore, so if anything gets off there please be patient with me  
> -other ships might happen. if they do i'll add them to the tags 
> 
> thanks for reading :D

****Gendry never brought his own tools to the North, and so it’s with a healthy respect that he begins cleaning up his station in the forge. He’s been in Winterfell too long, he knows. But the Northern armies that marched on King’s Landing had taken most of the stronger men, and Winterfell needed rebuilding. Lady Sansa requested the services of anyone who could to stay on and help with some of the efforts. Gendry knew more about building then he did about lording, and so it felt like a way for him to do some good until he heard from Davos, or one of the Houses from the Stormlands that Ser Brienne had been kind enough to write to for him.

He guesses she’ll have to tell him their responses, too. Gendry’s never followed politics beyond the Lannisters wanting him dead, and with Davos leading sailing efforts for Jon’s men and not being able to read, he’s relying on her to figure out if Storm’s End is a place that needs to be fought for or not.

His place. Still hard to wrap his mind around. He’s never even been to the Stormlands, has no idea what it was like other than what Ser Brienne has told him. “Wet,” she had said.

Steam billows up and around him as he cools a pair of tongs. Already the cold’s starting to get to him now that he’s away from the fire, the air clinging to his sweat and sending a chill. Gendry finishes up, grabbing a fur cloak and swinging it over his shoulders.

“Lord Baratheon,” greets a female voice behind him.

He doesn't answer until she calls it again, realizing he’s the one she’s talking to.

“Sorry,” he says, “What’s going on?”

Ser Brienne stands outside the forge, hand on the hilt of her sword. “You’ve news.”

Gendry stares at her for a moment, before he gives a brief nod for her to continue.

“Houses Connington, Selmy, and Dondarrion have pledged support.” Ser Brienne gives a thin-lipped smile. “As have Seaworth and Tarth.”

“That’s good, right?”

“A start, my Lord.”

“Gendry’s fine, we’ve been over that.” He walks over to her, and together they make way to the feast hall.

“Anyone say no, yet?” He asks, once they’ve sat at one of the long tables. It’s emptier here, now that the armies are away.

“Not yet. I suspect they’re waiting on news with King’s Landing.”

“See who loses?”

“Yes.”

Gendry picks up some wine. Pours it into Brienne’s glass before his. “Can’t say I blame them.”

“A suggestion, if I may?”

“‘Course.”

“It would do you well to note who supports the Baratheon name without question.” Ser Brienne takes half when Gendry splits his bread with her. “Aside from the support of the Queen, it is your strongest claim to Storm’s End.”

Gendry nods. “You, Davos, Beric’s people…?”

“Connington and Selmy.”

“Right.”

Podrick arrives from tending horses, and thankfully the conversation changes to weapons--something all three have clear opinions on. Something Gendry _knows,_ that talking about doesn’t make him feel like a right idiot.

Once dinner finishes, he takes a walk by himself along Winterfell’s walls. It’s dark, the only light coming from widely spaced torches. It’s been about two months, from his count, since they marched on King’s Landing.

He breathes into his cupped hands. Wonders how she’s doing.

It had all hurt, at first. Mainly because he drank too much and had been too excited and therefore had a little too much hope in how things would go. When he had woken up, head pounding and stomach roiling, he knew immediately that he had fucked it up. Knew that once he said the word “Lady” he had deserved whatever he got.

The next morning, he’d gone to find her, to apologize. To tell her that he didn’t mean the marriage part (not yet, anyway--unless she had said yes), but had meant the rest of it. But after hours of searching and asking, he found the truth: Arya had ridden out earlier that morning. No one knew if she’d be coming back, not even her siblings. And Gendry suspected he experienced heartbreak for the first time.

The pain of it hadn’t lasted long, at least. He worried too much for that. He knew she could fight, now. All of bloody Westeros knew. But that didn’t stop his thoughts from racing. Gendry knew things about Arya that not everyone did: that she was rash, that she got angry. That she didn’t fear anything and maybe she should. Once in a while.

He worried he wouldn’t ever see her again. Even just as...even if it wasn’t the same between them.

“You’re out late, Lord Baratheon.”

Gendry turns, bowing his head. “Lady Sansa.”

He’s had a few conversations with Arya’s sister. Nothing substantial. How long would it take to melt down dragonglass and refurbish it into bars for building. If she’d heard any news from the South. Small exchanges, but ones that Gendry thought were at least friendly enough.

She’s wearing all black, her hands folded into the fur-lined sleeves of her dress. “I understand you’re starting to receive ravens?”

“A few.”

“Good news, I hope.”

“I think so, yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Ser Brienne’s been a lot of help.”

She smiles as she steps to his side. “I’m not surprised.” Sansa sends him a strange look he doesn’t know how to interpret. “It will be good to see a Baratheon--a _real_ Baratheon--in Storm’s End.”

“Not quite real,” he corrects. “Still a bastard. Just got a name now.”

Sansa gives a low hum. “All the more reason to encourage friendship between Storm’s End and the North, don’t you think?”

“Our fathers were best friends,” Gendry says. “No reason it should be different now.”

“I agree.” Sansa turns to face him. “Allies with the North and the Iron Throne. Not a bad beginning for a bastard.”

He smiles. She smiles back.

“I’ve asked Ser Brienne to accompany you to Storm’s End, when you leave. You’ll need help dealing with nobility, and she knows them better than anyone else here.”

“You don’t need to-”

“It’s already done.”

Gendry blinks, concerned. “Is that...what she wants to do?”

Sansa coolly raises her eyebrows, amused. “I do _ask_ , first.”

“Right. I didn’t mean to say otherwise.”

She looks at him, a calm and evaluating stare that makes him feel like he’s being measured. Then she nods.

“Goodnight, Lord Baratheon.”

“‘Night, Lady Sansa.”

He stays out there for a little while after she leaves, looking up and watching the snowfall.

He would’ve liked it here, he thinks.

\--

A week later, a lone rider appears outside the gates of Winterfell. Once he sees who it is, Gendry smiles, truly smiles, and runs up to greet him.

“Davos!”

The smile falls from his face when he takes in Davos’s expression. His mouth makes a tight line, eyes shadowed from lack of sleep and skin pale.

Gendry frowns. “What is it?”

Davos stares at him, words grim. “Be ready to leave by tonight.”

“What?”

He shakes his head. “I’ll tell you later. But trust me, lad, we need to be on the road as soon as possible.”

Gendry falls inline with Davos as he walks to the stables. “...why aren’t you with the armies?”

“I rode ahead.”

“Did we lose, is that it? The Lannisters on their way?”

The look he sends him is haunted. “No.”

Davos closes his eyes. “No, lad. We won.”

\--

The next morning, a bastard lord, two knights, and a squire ride south.


	2. lording

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the amazing response so far! yall are awesome <3

**six months after the great burning of king’s landing.**

He doesn’t realize where he is until he feels Davos’s hand clap on his shoulder.

“Go to bed, lad.”

Gendry blinks awake, eyes burning. Slowly, he comes back into himself: neck cramped, wrist and fingers strained. Cheek pressed against the table. He’d been practicing.

“‘Time is it?”

“Late,” Davos says dryly with a rise of his brows.

Gendry draws himself up, stretching out his arms and yawning as he leans back. “I don’t think I’m getting any better,” he admits.

Davos moves to the side of him, staring at the scattered pieces of parchment on the table, most of it covered in black scratch marks. “Inclined to agree with you.”

He sighs, frustrated, as he drags a hand down his face. It stays over his mouth as he rests his elbows on the table. “Probably should stay up a bit later, then. Keep working on it.”

Davos shakes his head. “You do that, you’ll only have yourself to thank tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Petitions. Right.

He frowns. “Just feel like I’m behind, is all.”

“You are behind.” Davos pulls out the other chair to the small writing table. “But carry on like this, you’ll be exhausted and behind. Which one do you think is better?”

Gendry frowns. “So stupid or stupid and tired?”

Davos sends him a smile, humor in the expression. “I’ll take stupid, milord, all the same to you.”

He smiles back, though he doesn’t really feel it. Gendry knew getting into lordship would be a difficult thing at the best, but he still wasn’t ready for most of it. Countless ravens addressed to him that he couldn’t read, something called tariffs. People at Storm’s End every day and night, asking him questions that he, in turn, had to ask Davos to understand fully before he could answer. He felt...useless, more than anything. Useless and stupid and tired. Most days, he wanted to just fuck off back to Flea Bottom.

Except Flea Bottom wasn’t around anymore. About half of King’s Landing wasn’t. From what he heard, they were rebuilding, but it hadn’t softened the people of Stormland’s goodwill toward him: he was a bastard upstart, given his place by the Mad Dragon Queen. Those loyal to the Baratheons resented being in an alliance with the Targaryens, the people who hated the Baratheons resented him being there at all. And Gendry might’ve been stupid but he wasn’t an idiot--once word got out that he couldn’t read, or write, or be able to stomach things with white flour, it’d all be getting even harder for him.

“Gendry,” Davos’s voice cuts off his line of thought.

“Yeah?”

“You’re doing well,” he says. “Truly. Flea Bottom bastard or not.”

He doesn’t feel it.

“You know what would help?”

Gendry gives a short laugh. “Haven’t any idea.”

Davos leans forward, raises his brows. “ _Sleep._ ”

-

During the day, he’s too busy to really think about anything between his lessons, lording, and trying to keep up with his fighting. At night, he’s usually trying to read or practice writing. But on the nights where sheer exhaustion doesn’t catapult him to sleep, it’s harder.

The bed’s bigger than actual rooms he’s stayed in. There’s _sheets._ When he looks up, it’s not stars or creaking wooden boards or rafters he sees but the cloth of a canopy-- a rich yellow that borders on gold. He can stretch out his entire body, limbs far as they can go, and neither set of his fingers would reach the edge.

For the first month, it had been too soft for him to sleep in. He’d taken to the floor until the draft had been too much and Davos had walked in on him.

“Got to get used to it eventually,” he’d said.

So he tried. Eventually he adjusted. Maybe he hadn’t much progress with his letters, but he had learned some other lordly skills: he answered to Baratheon now, could sleep in featherbeds. Forks and knives were used more than hands or coarse bread for eating.

Gendry sleeps in his wide featherbed, and thinks about a fur cloak on top of grain sacks and knows which he prefers.

-

He hates petitions.

Not because of the people or anything, just because he doesn’t think he’s all that good at them. But the next morning, he wears a black doublet (that’s another lordly thing he does now, doublets instead of sweat and soot-stained linens), clears his throat, and sits at a long table that faces an equally long hall. On his left is Davos, on his right is Ser Brienne.

The doors open, and in they come.

The process is as usual: the petitioner comes in, asks him something. He asks Davos or Brienne. Then responds. It’s embarrassing, to say the least, but it is getting easier. Every once in awhile he feels fine answering just based on himself.

One of the last petitioners of the day is such a case.

It’s a carpenter, a landholder, and the landholder’s daughter. The carpenter is around his age, and the daughter a few years younger. They’re petitioning him for marriage. The landholder is here to object.

“Why’re you objecting?” Gendry asks.

The landholder sneers. “He has no land and no House.”

“He’s a carpenter, isn’t he? Sure he could build one.”

To his side, he hears Davos give a soft snort.

The landholder scowls. The carpenter, who came in looking like a beaten-down dog, lifts his head for the first time. Gendry meets his eyes, smiles. Hesitantly, the carpenter smiles back.

“My daughter is still a maiden. My family can find a better match for her,” the landholder presses.

Gendry looks at the carpenter. He’s wearing clothes that don’t have all the sawdust out, but Gendry can tell he tried to clean them. Then he looks at the daughter. She’s standing closer to the carpenter then her father, and the way her chin juts out and her eyes flash in annoyance makes him grin, a little. Makes his chest hurt, a little.

Gendry turns his attention back to the landholder. “Does she have a betrothal contract with someone else?”

The landholder’s eyes go wide. “No, but my Lord-”

Gendry scratches his chin, turning his attention to the daughter. “What do you want, then?”

The hall goes silent. There aren’t any gasps or anything, but he wonders if he made a mistake. Shit if he did, it’s too late now.

The daughter squares back her shoulders, then jerks her thumb at the carpenter. “I want to marry this stupid idiot.”

The carpenter doesn’t laugh, but the corners of his eyes crinkle. The landholder goes pale, nostrils flaring.

Gendry nods. “Alright then.”

When he realizes he’s supposed to say more, he clears his throat. “Go...get married, if you want.”

The carpenter looks at him in a strange way-- as though he’s grown a second head, as though he’s a friend. Finally he bows. “We won’t forget this, my Lord.”

“Neither will I,” hisses the landholder.

Once they leave, he turns to his advisors. “Did I do that wrong?”

“No,” Ser Brienne says with a smile at the same time Davos says, “It’s different.”

Gendry rolls his shoulders back, feeling a bit better. Different he can live with.

\--

Once the last petitioner leaves, and they all go to stand, Ser Brienne clears her throat.

“A word if I may, my Lord.”

He’s long since given up trying to correct her. He thinks, in a way, it’s more comfortable for Ser Brienne to call him that then his own name.

“Sure,” he says, straightening out his doublet and giving Davos a short nod of thanks for his help. The older man nods back.

He and Ser Brienne walk the long halls of Storm’s End. It had taken some getting used to, at first. Ser Brienne had been right when she said “wet.” It rained all the time, the air muggy. But it was also very green, and something in his stomach twisted up in a good way when he saw the banners of a black stag on a gold field hanging on all the walls.

It was starting to feel like home, or at least what Gendry thought home could feel like.

“I’ve heard from Lady Sansa,” Ser Brienne begins once they’ve walked out onto the battlements.

Gendry’s attention is a sharp thing at the name. “How’s the North?” He asks, trying to sound nonchalant and knowing he’s failing.

Ser Brienne sends him a slow look, but continues. “Rebuilding still, my Lord. But stronger by the day.” There’s something like pity in her eyes when she stares at him, and he wants to kick himself for being so pathetic. “There’s...little news of the Starks, aside from Lord Jon Stark.”

He tries not to be disappointed. “How’s he, then?”

Ser Brienne’s jaw tightens, just for a moment. “Marriage preparations are underway.”

“That’s...that’s good.”

“Of course.”

Gendry looks out over the stone railing, down into the green and marshy lands beyond the fortress. He sees the small village that surrounds the fortress, watches the smallfolk go about their days in the market.

News of the impending marriage of Lord Stark to Queen Daenerys Targaryen hadn’t been well received by the people of Westeros. Some saw it as the North bending the knee out of fear. He’d heard talk of others seeing it as a bastard boy being an opportunist. But Gendry knew Jon, knew that he wasn’t a coward or ambitious beyond keeping Winterfell safe. His family safe. And so he wondered what it was that convinced Jon to stay in the South, when everything he cared about was in the North.

“Anything else?” He asks.

“Yes, my Lord.” And at this, Ser Brienne clears her throat.

Gendry turns from the scene below them to the knight. “What’s going on?”

“Lady Sansa has asked that I remain at Storm’s End indefinitely,” she sends him an assessing stare. “As her representative.”

He starts to walk again. “Like a diplomat?”

“In a manner.” Ser Brienne falls into step with him. “She wanted me to make it known that I am here as an extension of the North’s good favor and friendship.”

He hears the ‘and.’

“...and requests she remains informed of any major political decisions made by the Stormlands.”

“So like a spy?”

Ser Brienne scowls at that. “The Lady Sansa would _never_ -”

“It’s fine. Really, it is.” He shrugs. “We’re allies, yeah? Ask that she lets us know the same.”

Tight-lipped, Ser Brienne nods.

He looks at her. The first few months at Storm’s End had been hard for the knight. He’d heard the rumors, everyone had, about how she had taken news of the Kingslayer’s death hard. Him and Podrick hadn’t had an outright conversation about it, but both made it a priority to make her feel at home at Storm’s End. Or, if not at home, at least not in pain. Since arriving, aside from being one of his advisors, he also assigned her to training the guard. The duties seemed to keep her busy, and maybe on her way to happy. He liked to think of her as a friend.

Gendry exhales. “I’m glad you’re staying, by the way.”

Even though he can tell she’s still annoyed at him calling Sansa a spy, she gives a curt nod. “So am I, my Lord.”

\--

At first, he had tried to pick up a Lord’s hobbies. He’d tried hunting, but didn’t have the patience for it and couldn’t see it as fun after having spent years on the road needing to do it for sustenance. He was told they had falcons, but he wasn’t sure what the point of all that was. Cards and dice games aggravated him because it felt like a waste of time, so did chess. And so when he had some time to himself, he was often down in the village.

In some ways, it reminded him of Flea Bottom. There were a lot of folk around, and most of them were too wrapped up in their own business to care any mind to his. At first it had been awkward and uncomfortable, but the more time he spent there the more certain they were that he wasn’t there to arrest them or beat them or take their gold or whatever it is most lords did.

That afternoon, he was making nails and beams in the forge that the local smithy, Alyn, let him use from time to time. They were to go toward building that house for Willis, the carpenter he’d come to know a bit better since his marriage petition. Goal was to get it done in less than a moon, so it’d be ready before his wedding.

He’s in the middle of cleaning out a mould when Davos finds him.

“Keeping busy,” Davos comments, staying out of his way as he keeps working.

“Lots to do,” Gendry agrees. “What brings you here?”

“You’re not going to like it.”

Gendry stills his hands, looking up. Once he sees Davos’s face, he _knows_. “Thought we weren’t doing that yet.”

“We are.”

“I don’t think I’m ready.”

“You are.”

“Is anyone even showing up?”

“They are.”

"Fuck," Gendry swears.

\--

A month later, Gendry is seated at the head of a long table. The hall of Storm’s End is full of nobles--all representatives of the Houses in the Stormlands. Davos and Ser Brienne had helped him remember the important ones: there was Lords Ralph and Brus Buckler, the former of which had sided with Joffrey during the war and the latter of which, according to Davos, had been nice to his cousin Shireen. Members of House Caron-- he’d heard about Rolland Storm, the Bastard of the Nightsong, and was hoping to talk to him a bit. House Wylde, which apparently had daughters that Gendry had to meet. Penrose, Swann, Staedmon, Estermont, Erroll. Dondarrion and Selmy, of which Gendry had met many of the members already and had given them the second-best table to sit at.

The best table had members of Houses Seaworth and Tarth. He’d met Davos’s wife and sons before, and whenever he was feeling overwhelmed or nervous, he’d look over to that table to see Davos with his sons. It made him happy, to see Davos happy. Made him think about what it’d be like to have his own children, his own family, one day.

He doesn’t stay on that thought too long.

Gendry spends the evening half-hearing what people are saying to him, his mind fixated on other things that, later, would seem trivial but right now seemed critical: making sure he didn’t spill wine anywhere, that he kept his elbows off the table, that he didn’t say “fuck” or “shit” or smush his words together like a lowborn.

He doesn’t notice that more than half of those seated at the table are ladies. That every family has made an effort to introduce him to at least one unwed, female relation. He doesn’t notice the slow eyes or sultry smiles thrown his way, or how two daughters from House Wylde have been spending the better part of an hour trying to get more than one sentence of conversation from him.

“Are you finding Storm’s End to your liking, Lord Gendry?” Asks a pretty girl with blond hair from he thinks the Swann family.

“Yeah,” he says, trying to remember what’s the right way to eat quail with a fork.

“They say you used to be a smith?” Inquires a lovely widow from the Estermonts.

“I was,” he agrees, absently kicking some of the food he dropped on the floor under the table.

“What was the Battle of Winterfell like?” Sighs a breathy woman from the Penroses.

“Long night,” he offers, attention fixed on blotting out some of the wine he spilled onto his nice trousers.

Later, music starts and there’s dancing and he doesn’t want to do it but Davos tilts his head at the musicians and he sighs.

The girl from Swann flinches when he steps on her toes.  
The widow from the Estermont has to teach him the steps to one of the jigs.  
The breathy woman from Penrose makes his eyes go wide when she says she accidentally grabs his arse.

He only knows he’s doing miserably, _really_ miserably, when Ser Brienne sighs and intercepts his hand before some lady from what he thinks is the Carons does.

“You _know_ these steps, My Lord,” she admonishes flatly as she guides him through one of the slower dances.

Gendry looks up at her. “I just want to go to bed,” he confesses.

There is the barest twitch of amusement at the corners of her lips. “One more hour, and that will be acceptable.”

There’s a squeal of girlish laughter, and both he and Ser Brienne turn to see Podrick sitting, surrounded by all the women Gendry had just fumbled through dances with.

Gendry’s mouth goes slack while Ser Brienne lets out an annoyed exhale through her nose.

\--

It’s not all terrible. He does get to meet Rolland Storm, and the two hit it off alright.

“You look miserable,” the famed fighter says, refilling Gendry’s tankard once he’s had a moment to breathe.

Gendry looks up at the ceiling. “I am miserable.”

“Better get used to it,” Rolland says with a smile that Gendry thinks is friendly enough, clanking his tankard to his. “They keep the bastards busy, around here.”

He rolls his shoulders, downs the ale. Rolland scratches at his pox-scarred face before hollering Davos over. The three of them share a few more drinks, and Rolland and Davos tell him about his uncles, and by the third ale, Gendry thinks he might survive the night.

\--

The next morning, his head is screaming from both exhaustion and drink, but he makes himself get up and go to the study. By the window rests that damned desk, covered in parchment, and he sighs before resigning himself to an hour of practice. He pulls out one of the books, then readies the quill, and starts copying from the book to the paper.

It’s midday when Davos finds him.

“Couple of the families have been looking for you.”

Gendry doesn’t look up. He can’t figure out if this is the letter w or u or v. “You can tell them where I am, if you want.”

Davos shakes his head. “You know why we had you host the feast last night.”

The scratching of Gendry’s quill stalls. There’s a long silence.

Davos clears his throat. “There’s been offers from the Penroses-”

Gendry waves him off with the back of his hand. “That’s alright.” Goes back to writing.

Davos is thrown for a moment, but then he chuckles. “Not one for Ladies, I take it?”

The night comes back to him in quick pieces: his breath escaping from his mouth in clouds, the press of cold dirt underneath his knee. A soft expression on her face that he thinks he’s never seen before as she bows down to lift him up-

His chest feels tight again. “Not really.”

Davos sits with the response for a moment, before he nods. “Don’t have to decide anything right now. Just be thinking about it.”

He’s thought too much about it. “I will.”

“And Gendry?”

“Yes?”

“Get up and see to your guests.”

What Gendry’s feeling must be written on his face, because Davos lets out a quiet laugh.

\--

Miles away, a white horse starts riding east.


	3. the guests of house baratheon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so REALLY ignoring all of ep 6, sorry not sorry

**seven months after the great burning of king’s landing.**

The weather’s warm enough that no one needs furs or even leathers. The center of the village has got a fire going, and a couple of the younger folk have started dancing around it when instruments start playing. He’s got a stomach full of ale, rabbit, and coarse bread. There have been worse nights in Storm’s End.

“Happy, aren’t they?” Davos asks from where he sits at his side.

Gendry watches as Jocie forcibly drags her new husband into the dancers. “Seems like.”

Davos looks up, the night sky clear. It’s a small miracle there’s no rain tonight. “Good time for a wedding.” He tilts his head at Gendry. “And the house looks well done.”

It does. It stands just outside the circled cottages of the village, roof freshly thatched and door painted yellow. It’s nothing extravagant, as Willis had insisted it stay “proper,” but he’d help with the building to make sure he and Jocie could get settled before her father had anything to do about it. A smart move, it seemed, since the man wasn’t in attendance for his daughter’s marriage.

It gets later, and Gendry hears more and more shouting and laughing.

“Best be getting off,” Davos says. “A Lord attending the wedding of smallfolk is one thing, staying while they all get into cups is another.”

Gendry watches as Willis’ big arms awkwardly wrap around Jocie’s small frame, the two of them bumping noses and smiling at each other and he realizes that perhaps he’s not as fine as he’s trying to be.

“Something the matter?” Davos asks.

Jocie doesn’t look much like Arya. Blond hair, for one, and green eyes. And he doesn’t look much like Willis aside from having laborer’s hands and a big build. So he needs to stop thinking about it. Stop being stupid.

“No,” he mutters, standing. “They get their gift alright?”

“Goat’s all tied up in the back of the house.”

“Good.” He’d wanted to give them one of his falcons, since he wasn’t sure what all they did but knew they were expensive. But Ser Brienne and Davos had simultaneously shaken their heads at the suggestion. “Back to the castle, then?”

Gendry looks around the center of the village. People are getting drunk and laughing, dancing. He sees a few kids stealing apples off the table when no one’s looking. Once the fire’s died down, they’ll go back to their homes and lay on beds of straw or cots. And he’ll go back to his castle and sleep in the middle of the bed that’s too big for him to reach the sides of.

He’s not one of them, anymore. No matter how many houses he helps build or anvils he hits. But his mind goes back to the disastrous feast they held a moon ago, and he knows he’s not one of them, either.

It’s lonely, he thinks. Somehow lonelier than life as a bastard, which he had never thought possible.

Davos looks at him, his gaze slowly going to the dancing couple and he frowns in thought. Then he shakes the expression.

“C’mon, Gendry. Let’s get you back home.”

\--

He’s a lot better at sums then letters, the way of it not all the different from the work he did as a tradesmen. Just had to write a little more, that’s all. The night after the wedding, he and Podrick are sitting in one of his rooms (they all had different names, he hasn’t bothered learning them), practicing so he can one day keep his own finances. It’d be a wife’s job, were he to have a wife.

Gendry makes a scratch into the paper as he figures out the tax for an imaginary amount of grain. “That’d make...twelve dragons?”

Podrick nods. “And two stags.”

“Shit, where’d I miss those?”

He taps at the paper. “Right there.”

He throws his quill down on the desk, frustrated. “Fuck all.”

Podrick sends him a long stare. “I’m guessing you don’t want to do the next one?”

Gendry runs his hand down his face. Takes a breath. He’s so fucking angry lately. All this little stuff keeps adding (or, _not_ adding) up and the only thing he wants to do is avoid driving the Stormlands into the ground. Davos insists his letters are getting better, but he still can’t send or receive ravens on his own. Brienne tells him he’s responding to petitions well, but for everything he solves, two more problems come up.

And now he’s forgot two stags somewhere.

“Gendry?”

He tries to blink away some of the frustration. “Alright, another one.”

“You sure?”

“No. But let’s do it anyway.”

Podrick sends him a small, thin grin before he pulls out another piece of parchment. “Alright. If a horse is travelling from King’s Landing to Storm’s End, how long-”

“My lord?”

Both Podrick and Gendry turn toward the door at Brienne’s voice.

He leans back in his chair. “Come on in,” he calls, because otherwise she’d stay out there.

Brienne bows her head when she enters. “There’s been riders spotted.”

Gendry’s brows draw together. “So?”

Brienne’s mouth holds the slightest of frowns. “They are riding on the causeway straight to the gates, my lord. We’ve received no ravens that indicate visitors.”

“Must be important.” Gendry stands and pushes his chair back in like Davos taught him. “Guess we’d better go say hello, then.”

“After you, my lord.”

\--

It’s late enough that everything’s lit by torches, the orange light spilling over the stones. Ever since the Battle of Winterfell, he hasn’t been comfortable on the battlements at night-- they bring back the memories. The sound of wights moving, their hands clawing up the walls. The smell of charred flesh and hair. The sight of the bright blue eyes sparking in the dark. He’s got his hammer strapped across his back, not because he thinks he’ll need it, but because it makes him feel better to have it.

“Archers are ready should you need them,” Davos says to his side as they walk toward the main gate.

He adjusts the collar on his Baratheon leathers, not sure what would be required of him in this particular exchange. “I don’t think that'll happen.”

“It’s a mad world, all the same.”

“Might be right on that one.”

They’re still walking toward the main gate when Gendry hears one of the guardsmen call out.

“State your business!”   
  
“I’m Arya Stark of Winterfell. I’m here to speak to your Lord.”

Gendry stops suddenly enough that he trips a bit. Then he rushes to the edge so he can look down. In the dark, it’s hard to make much out, but he sees a white horse with a slight rider on it, and a larger one behind them. He doesn’t know who the second rider is-

“Open the gate, you shallow cunts!”

-then he does.

“What in seven hells’ is a Stark girl doing here?” Davos asks under his breath, looking confused but not unhappy.

“Tell them to let her in,” Gendry breathes, halfway to the stairs.

\--

She’s already through the gate when he gets there, swinging off her horse in a motion so graceful it makes his head spin a little. It’s been almost a year since he’s last seen or heard from her, but not much has changed. Well, her hair’s up, he supposes.

Gendry knows she hasn’t seen him yet, but he can’t find it in himself to move forward. They aren’t ever going to be strangers, but he doesn’t know what kind of reception he’s meant to give. He’s pissed, he’s nervous. He’s alright, he’s sad. He can only stand there like he’s seeing something that was never really there for him. His boots are coated in mud. He should’ve worn better boots.

Arya turns a little to pass the reins over to a stablehand, and she must catch sight of him then because she stills. Then Arya seems to study him, eyes starting at his boots (he knew it) before resting and staying on his face. Her expression isn’t soft or vulnerable or wistful-- if anything, she looks confused and angry about it. Which makes him confused and angry about it.

She seems to give up on whatever problem it is that she’s working through, because she strides forward.

“Don’t go to the wedding,” she demands.

Arya’s here. In front of him. Telling him not to do things. It’s like one of Podrick’s games--if Arya says something, how long will it take Gendry to figure it out.

“I already went to it,” is all he manages.

“Went to _what_?”

“The wedding.”

“It hasn’t happened yet.”

He’s so dazed and slack-jawed and he _is_ stupid, isn’t he. Because why would she know about Willis or Jocie? “Wait...whose wedding?”

“The royal wedding,” comes a new voice. Gendry’s pretty sure his balls leap into his stomach at it.

From behind Arya, out steps Sandor Clegane.

He doesn’t look good, to say the least. The scars on the side of his face have been joined by others, darker and bigger. The corner of his lips is permanently drooped. He walks with a limp. 

“You fucking done staring yet? Because I’m not waiting for you to string two thoughts together. ” He tosses a bag at him, which Gendry barely catches. Then he starts walking past him. “Where’s the food, Lord Twat?”

Arya doesn’t look away from Gendry, her thumbs hooked into her belt. “We need to talk. Meet me inside with Ser Davos and Brienne.”

Then she walks past him as well.

Gendry stands alone in the middle of the courtyard to his own bloody castle. How did they even know where to go?

“...the fuck just happened.”

\--

He finds Arya kneeling in front of a hearth in one of the smaller sitting rooms, the fire going and her hands outstretched toward it. The Hound’s seated to the side, viciously tearing and biting into the roasted leg of some kind of animal. Both of them are soaked from rain.

Gendry’s shock has (mostly) passed, and instead he just finds himself getting pissed. “Going to tell me what any of this is about?”

Her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t turn to face him. “Sit down,” she says.

He almost does, and that just makes him angrier. “You first.”

“Better watch out,” the Hound deadpans around chunks of masticated meat. “The Lord’s got his bearings, now.”

Gendry ignores him in favor of staring at her back. Gendry’s standing in a room with the only woman he’s ever loved, and between the Hound spitting bones onto the floor and her not turning around, this is _not_ how he ever thought this would go.

“Arya,” he says with feeling, “What the fuck?”

The silence seems to stretch forever, and then Arya stands up. She walks over to the table, lifts up her one-shouldered cloak, and sits back down. She folds her hands neatly in front of her.

“Sit,” she says. When he doesn’t move, because his jaw is clenched and he’s about three seconds away from telling _The Hound_ to use _manners,_ her expression softens for the first time. “Please, Gendry.”

Gendry stares at her, hearing how his breath is coming in more sharply. She looks back and her eyes are wide and still very grey and just. Fuck him.

Tension leaves his shoulders, and he sits on the opposite side of the table.

“Clean up your shit,” he tells the Hound.

“Fuck off,” says the Hound.

He folds his hands and rests them on the table, too. They’re not close enough to touch hers.

They sit in silence, as he tries to look at anything but her because he just _can’t_ right now, and the combined sounds of fire and storm and _Hound_ fill the room. It’s smothering.

“Gendry…” Arya starts.

“Yeah?” He answers, feeling tired.

He waits as she tries to figure out whatever it is she wants him to know, and that’s when Davos, Podrick, and Brienne join them.

“Pick those up,” Brienne says curtly.

The Hound sneers, but kicks the bones toward the fire.

“Not that we’re not happy to have you at Storm’s End, lass,” Davos begins, taking the seat next to Gendry. “But...well, why?”

No one in here seems to notice anything’s wrong. It’s like Arya could be anyone, and he could be anyone, and it wouldn’t make a difference. No one _knows_ about them, but he had hoped that maybe...maybe his being in the same room as Arya Stark made a difference to someone other than him.

Gendry clenches his jaw and hazards looking at her.

She’s staring right at him. Gendry swallows and turns his attention back to his folded hands.

“Your sister?” Continues Brienne. “Is she well?”

“I haven’t been back to Winterfell,” Arya says. “I’ve been with Jon.”

“In King’s Landing?” Brienne asks, sounding surprised.

He’s not. Whenever Arya left anywhere, it was only to go somewhere worse.

“Yes.”

“And you?” Davos asks over Gendry’s head.

The Hound grunts. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m here because Tyrion Lannister’s dead,” Arya interrupts.

Gendry frowns, looking up. Arya is still watching him, her expression troubled and one piece of dark hair sticking to the side of her neck from rainwater.

“Can imagine why,” Davos says slowly.

He’s glad Brienne asks, so he doesn’t have to. “What do you mean, Davos?”

“He committed treason to free his brother,” Arya says flatly. “The Queen had him burned.”

Brienne goes very still. Podrick’s expression can’t be anything but sorrowful.

“Just Tyrion?” Davos asks carefully.

“Yes,” Arya says, and she looks away from Gendry long enough to meet the older man’s eyes. “ _Just_ Tyrion.”

Davos nods, rubbing one of his fingers over his chin.

“He was a good man,” Podrick offers.

Gendry didn’t know him well enough to agree one way or the other, but he’d seen what the Queen’s dragons could do. No one should’ve had to face that.

“After the burning of King’s Landing,” Arya begins, “I couldn’t leave Jon. So I stayed with him and the Stark armies.” Again, she looks right at him, like she wants him to understand something. “I thought she’d kill him.”

Gendry frowns, remembering the King of the North and the Queen in Winterfell. They had seemed happy enough, seated next to one another in the feast hall. “Why would she want that?”

“Because my brother is actually my cousin,” Arya says. “His father was Rhaegar Targaryen, who married my aunt Lyanna.”

“So he’s a prince?” Gendry guesses.

“No.” Brienne’s eyes are wide, her voice quiet. “No, he’s heir to the throne.”

“Why are you telling us this, Lady Stark?” Davos presses, and he sounds grim in the way he did when he arrived at Winterfell. As though he’s seen terrible things, perhaps worse than the wights or the Night King.

Gendry can’t imagine anything worse than that, but from what he’s heard about King’s Landing, it sounds close.

“Jon’s a good lad,” Davos continues in a voice that does not sound any less worried. “He won’t be claiming the throne from Her Grace.”

“I don’t think that matters to her.” Arya shakes her head. “But Jon will marry her. I told him not to, but he’s…” she swallows thickly, in the way she did when she was a kid and trying to act like she wasn’t afraid of the rapers or torturers. “He’s doing it. Which is why we came here.”

The Hound lets out a loud snort, but doesn’t elaborate when Gendry looks at him.

“The wedding,” Gendry mumbles, it all sliding into place. “Why don’t you want me to go?”

Arya bites down on her lip, and that confused-but-angry expression is back on her face for just a moment before she schools it away. Not for the first time, he misses the girl who wore everything on her sleeve. Sometimes if only to hit you with it.

“You’re legitimized,” she explains simply enough. “People know that now.”

Gendry doesn’t understand her meaning. “Haven’t tried to hide it.”

“It’s not that, lad,” Davos says. “You’re a Baratheon, King Robert’s son. The people…” he pinches the bridge of his nose. “The people might prefer that to the Mother of Dragons.”

The scoff escapes before Gendry can stop it. “A bastard on the throne? No one would take that seriously.”

“I wouldn’t,” the Hound offers unhelpfully, picking something from his teeth. “But that doesn’t matter. The smallfolk are talking about it. Them fucks talk about it, then the landholders. Then a noble or two.”

The Hound shifts, until his elbows rest on his knees. He looks right at Gendry when he speaks. “When that happens, it doesn’t matter if me or you or the fucking Seven believe it’s true. It only matters if the dragon bitch does.”

“There are Baratheon supporters in King’s Landing,” Arya whispers. “I’ve heard them.”

Gendry’s heart pounds. “I don’t want to be a bloody king-”

“Didn’t want to be a lord either, did you?” The Hound counters. “Yet look where you are in those fancy fucking leathers.”

“We’re allied,” he protests quietly, knowing all the weight that holds. Everyone, from bastard to Lord, learned how long-lasting allies could be during the War of Five Kings.

“She needs someone to hold the Stormlands,” Davos adds, more shrewd about it. “And last I checked, Daenerys didn’t have many allies in Westeros left.”

“The Stormlands,” Arya agrees. She reaches forward, grabbing onto his forearm and his entire body goes instantly tense. “Don’t go to King’s Landing.”

“I’ll have to eventually.”

“Not today.”

He can’t look away from where her hand rests on his arm. Judging by the silence at the table, he figures everyone’s noticed that.

“If he doesn’t attend the wedding,” Davos says slowly. “The Queen could take that poorly as well.”

“It’s a better risk than potentially being seen with conspirators,” Brienne reluctantly offers.

“Not necessarily.” Davos shakes his head. “Avoiding King’s Landing could imply guilt. The Queen...she’s…”

“Burning people,” Podrick whispers.

The table sits silent at that.

“Aye,” Davos agrees quietly. “She is.”

“...What else can I do?” Gendry says. “To make it clear I don’t want the throne?”

“Marriage,” Davos says easily. “To one of her loyalists. A match the Queen approves of, likely to a lower House in Dorne or the Iron Islands.”

Gendry’s mouth goes dry, tongue sticking to the roof. He doesn’t realize it, but he grips Arya’s arm in that moment. She tenses, but doesn’t let go.

“She’s already trying to do that with Sansa,” Arya snaps. Her hand doesn’t move from him.

Brienne looks offended. “The Lady Sansa has more than earned her independence-”

“It’s not me you need to convince,” Arya says tightly.

His head’s pounding.

“Anything else?” He manages.

“Off the top of my head, no.” Davos frowns. “Not until there’s another war, anyways. Or you and the Queen have heirs you can betroth.”

Gendry scowls at the table. Then he shoves his chair back.

“I need to think,” he states. “We’ll talk about this more tomorrow.”

“Gendry, lad-”

“ _Tomorrow._ ” He stands, and Arya’s touch drops from him.

Because he can’t think about things like marriage and betrothals and heirs when she’s there. When she’s right across from him, acting like he hadn’t made a fucking fool of himself the last time they spoke. And maybe her heart’s not all broken up and twisted, but his _is,_ and he can’t pretend otherwise when she’s looking at him. He’s not that good a liar.

“The Hound and I can ride back to-”

“ _No,_ ” Gendry cuts her off. He shakes his head and glares down at the floor. There’s too many words, thoughts, running through his mind and he doesn’t want to say or think half of them. So he does what he’s been training to do.

He talks like a Lord.

“You are guests of House Baratheon.” He declares before his voice goes quiet. “Podrick will see you to some rooms.”

Gendry forces the next words through his teeth. “Goodnight…” he wants to say something like My Lady or Lady Stark but he can’t quite do it. “Arya. Hound.”

“Twat,” the Hound returns with a nod. Arya says nothing, but he feels her stare on him.

He doesn’t return it. Instead, he leaves and tries to make the walk back to his rooms as slow as possible--even though he wants nothing more to run. And maybe that makes him a coward, but anyone would be a fool to try and out-brave Arya Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more proper reunion next chapter ;)


	4. needle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the response to this fic has been so wonderful i was motivated to write up another chapter ;; thank you all so much for the comments and kudos, i really appreciate them <3
> 
> also some **disclaimers** about the direction of the fic, since i don't want anyone stuck reading something they didn't sign up for:
> 
> -i'd say my characterization of dany in this is going to be dark but not EVIL. she fucked up, and the narrative will treat it as such, but this fic isn't going full Mad Queen. as of right now, i also don't plan on killing her off
> 
> -sansa's going to be aiming for Northern Independence, which is going to be causing some tension/friction for everyone involved. she likely wont be making 100% nice choices all the time
> 
> the focus isn't on either of them so much as the ripple effects they have, but thought i'd make that part transparent at the jump <3

He doesn’t even try to sleep, bypassing his quarters for anywhere he thinks he’ll be left alone. It leads him to the rookery, the ravens cawing loudly at his entrance. One of the attendants looks at him over his shoulder with a yawn, then double-takes and turns around.

“My lord-”

Gendry waves his hand. “Mind if I sit up here?”

The attendant stares at him strangely, and then Gendry realizes this is his, too, and he shouldn’t have to ask. But he’s a Lord, not a dick.

“Uh, sure,” the attendant says.

He nods, finding a place to sit and crossing his arms over his chest. There’s nothing he really wants to think about. So he watches the ravens until he feels he can calm down. At some point, he must make the attendant uncomfortable, because he excuses himself.

“Been looking all over for you,” comes the ragged voice of Davos.

Gendry isn’t _sulking_ because that’s not something he does. “Didn’t want to be found.”

Davos sends a wry glance around the rookery. “Gathered that.” He takes a seat next to Gendry. “Better places to hide than in raven shit.”

“Probably.”

“Anything you want to get off your mind?”

Gendry scowls, glaring at the poor birds who seem to shuffle as if sensing the tension in him. Eventually, he settles for just hitting the back of his head against the wall.

“Tired, is all.”

“If you say.” Davos sends him a long look that he doesn’t understand, but knows he doesn’t like. “Your guests have been made comfortable.”

The scowl doesn’t leave his face. Absently, his fingers pick at the edge of his leathers’ hems. “Yeah. Good.”

“I hadn’t realized you and the Lady Stark were acquainted.”

Gendry snorts. “You and everyone else.”

Because she’d ended it before anyone could know. Other than the Hound, that is. His ears grow hot even remembering _that_ moment after the bells had sounded.

Davos clears his throat. “Quite the accomplished young woman.”

“Yeah.”

“Brave, besides. To ride here from King’s Landing to warn you.”

“Arya’s always been brave.”

“Must have been of some import to her, seeing she didn’t want to send a raven.”

Gendry glares at his hands. “It’s hard to tell with her.”

Davos presses his lips together, giving a slight nod as he runs his hands down his thighs to rest on his knees. “Well. I don’t claim to know the lass, but I will say this: none of the Starks strike me as the kind to be fanciful.”

The glare turns into a confused frown. “What you mean?”

“Just think there’s likely a reason she came herself.” Again, Davos clears his throat and Gendry wonders if he should grab him some water. “Long way between here and King’s Landing, after all.”

“Nine and a half days by single rider,” Gendry agrees. He’d worked Podrick’s game out while he’d stared at the ravens.

Davos looks like he isn’t sure what to do with that. “Right.”

He looks up with a sigh, and Gendry thinks he’s trying to get something out, but isn’t sure how. Gendry looks at him expectantly.

A beat. “Well. Good talk. Try to get yourself to bed.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. He must’ve been wrong about Davos having something else to say.

Davos hesitates for a moment, then claps Gendry on the shoulder and makes his exit.

Gendry sighs, thumping the back of his head against the wall one more time.

\--

He sees her waiting at the end of the hall, and a very real part of him wants to just turn around and maybe sleep in the rookery or one of the other 800 rooms in Storm’s End. But the jumble of his brain has, if not solved itself, at least settled enough. So Gendry walks toward his rooms, and runs a hand down his face.

“You should be asleep,” he says, voice a bit scratchy himself.

Arya looks away from the tapestry that hung outside his quarters. Podrick told him it showed the Storm Queen Argella’s last stand against Orys Baratheon. He thought it strange to hang up something about losing a battle, and only hoped it was made _after_ the Storm Queen had been brought back to the castle as Orys’ wife.

And he doesn’t know why he’s thinking about history right now.

Arya takes her time in answering him, so he spends a little more looking her over. It’s true not much has changed, but now that her message is delivered and he’s not five seconds away from a heart attack, he can note the small things. She’s a scar above her eye now, a different one than from the Battle of Winterfell, which he still sees next to it. She looks tired.

Then his eyes snag at something sticking out her belt. “That Needle?”

“What?”

“On your belt.”

Arya sends him a strange look, but she nods. After a moment, she withdraws the blade and offers it to him, hilt-first. Carefully, he takes it, knowing how much the little sword means to her.

He lifts it up to his eye level. “Can’t believe it. All of Westeros at war, and you find a single sword.”

“I’m surprised you remember it.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Gendry’s too intent on reacquainting himself with the thin blade that he misses Arya’s expression softening.

“You had this at Winterfell?”

“Yes. Didn’t practice with it as much, since it wouldn’t work against the wights.”

Gendry lays it on his palms, shaking his head to see it’s still as balanced as he remembers. After a moment, he hands it back to her.

“I’m glad you found it.”

She takes it. “Me too.”

Arya sheathes the sword, and he’s acutely aware that it’s just the two of them in this hall. That it’s late, and that they’re outside his room. Gendry knows it’s foolish, but his cock’s occasionally faster than his brain and so he entertains the thought of what all these circumstances could mean. Then he banishes it just as quickly. She doesn't want him, that much had been made clear. And he'd respect that, even when it hurt to.

So they just. Watch each other. And Gendry knows he should say _something,_ that every second in silence with Arya Stark feels like drowning, but he can’t quite make himself come up for air yet.

“What are you going to do?” She asks.

Not propose, he’s learned that one. But he’d maybe tell her she's beautiful again, if she’d hear it. His heart’s pounding and he wants to cross the last step between them and kiss her, even though he knows it’s a phenomenally stupid idea but he was just a stupid bull and-

“-you’re talking about the wedding,” he realizes.

“What did you think I was talking about?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he lies. “And I don’t know. I’m still thinking it through.”

“She’s not the same as she was in Winterfell,” Arya cuts in quickly. “Something happened in the South. I don’t know what, but I saw what came after.”

Arya, for a moment, seems to go somewhere else. Her eyes go a little distant. He’d seen the same look on a couple of the Northerners after the Long Night.

“You alright?” He asks, his hands going to her shoulders so he can bend down and get a better read on her expression.

“Fine,” she says quietly. Her hand goes to one of his wrists, but she doesn’t pull it off her just yet. “Gendry you don’t know what it’s like there.”

And he _snorts_ at that. “I’m a bastard boy from Flea Bottom. I know better than anyone.”

“Not like that,” Arya shakes her head. “Court. It’s not the same.”

“Too stupid for it, is that what you mean?”

“Don’t be such a shit.”

“Then what?” He drops his hands because he doesn’t trust them right now. “Just _talk_ to me.”

“If you go back to King’s Landing she’ll kill you,” Arya says flatly. “The Lannisters did it to my father, and she’ll do it to you.”

His frustration is near boiling over. “She’s the one who bloody legitimized me!”

“That was before she burned down a city,” Arya says with a hint of a snarl.

He’s so fucking tired. Gendry squeezes his eyes closed. “So I stay here and let her find me some Dornish Lady, that it?”

The silence is long.

“...maybe it is,” Arya says quietly.

“Well I’m glad it’s such an easy decision for you,” he snaps.

When she doesn’t say anything, he just shakes his head and gestures to the hall. “You think I know what I’m doing with any of this? You think I’ve _wanted_ to feel like an idiot for months?”

“You’re not an idiot.”

“Just stupid?”

“Just stupid.” Arya looks sad, he thinks. “If you’re going to be a good Lord, learn what my father and brother haven’t. Don’t go to King’s Landing.”

“Are you going?”

“What?”

“Are you going to the wedding?”

Arya’s jaw works. “I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because Sansa will go. And I have to protect my family.”

She’d wanted him to be her family, once. He wonders when that changed. Why he’d been fool enough to not just go with her back to Winterfell. It’d all be easier, he thinks, if he had.

“What’s to stop her from killing you, then?”

“I don’t matter enough,” Arya says simply. “I don’t have armies or lands. Most of Westeros knows nothing about me other than I’m the wayward Stark girl.”

That can’t be right. “You killed the fucking Night King.”

“And only the North will remember that.”

“I’ll remember.”

Arya sends him a strange look at that, like she doesn’t know what to do with his words. He almost physically sees her put them to the side. But then she just keeps staring, and he sees the same confusion he thought he saw inside the gates when she first arrived. Her eyes find his.

“Don’t get killed,” is all she says.

“No one’s been able to do it yet.”

And there’s the slightest spark of humor in her expression. “No one important’s tried.”

“Just some wights. Lannisters.” It’s hard to swallow for a moment. _One Baratheon,_ he doesn’t say.

Then they’re just back to looking at each other again. Gendry isn’t as angry as he was, but he doesn’t feel happy, either. Just. Tired.

“How long are you staying?” Is what he manages.

“How long am I a guest of House Baratheon?”

He doesn’t wince, but the temptation’s there. “Long as you need.”

Arya nods. That’s not an answer. She’s really good at never giving him answers. “At least until tomorrow, then.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Well.” He frowns. “Let me know before you decide to leave.” _So it’s not like last time,_ he doesn’t say.

“I will.”

“Good.”

Arya sends him that strange look again, before she shakes her head. “Good night.”

“G’night.”

He watches her leave.

 _I still love you,_ he doesn’t say.

\--

He breaks fast with the Hound of all people. Gendry slept for shit, his vision blurred and his mouth dry. There’s some wine, coarse bread, and smoked fish--it’s his usual meal, although Gendry’s noticed most the wine’s gone.

Gendry sends the Hound a wary look before he sits on the opposite side of the table. When the man doesn’t say anything--or acknowledge he exists, really--he starts eating. They’re about halfway through a smoked fish when the Hound finally speaks, the sound of it almost making Gendry run his fork through his other hand.

“Surprised they haven’t revolted yet.”

He glares. “I do alright.”

The Hound snorts. Takes another long drink of wine.

Gendry thinks that’s the end of it, until The Hound speaks again after another cup. “You fuck up, and I gut you like this fish.”

“Fuck up what?”

The Hound makes a noise like he’s picking something from his teeth with his tongue, and leaves without another word.

Gendry pours himself the rest of the wine, deciding he doesn’t give a shit about the Hound today.

\--

He doesn’t see Arya until he’s in the middle of hearing petitions. It’s the normal affair, although the ones for today seem a bit easier and so he doesn’t have to ask Davos or Brienne as many questions.

Gendry’s helping a representative from House Whitehead and a merchant ship’s captain determine the amount of tax for selling goods in Weeping Town when he catches sight of her.

Arya’s standing to the side, leaning against one of the pillars in the audience hall. She’s surrounded by smallfolk waiting for their turn, her arms crossed over her stomach. He gets the feeling she’s been there a lot longer.

When all she does is watch, he gives her a nervous, hesitant smile.

It’s quick, but Gendry’s pretty sure she smiles back.

He has to ask Davos to double check his sums, but he thinks he does alright because both House Whitehead and the captain leave with only minimal grumbling.

\--

After they sup, Gendry asks for Brienne and Davos to meet with him. Arya’s nowhere to be seen, and in a way it’s a relief. He can think clearer, he’s sure, with her gone.

“Where are we?” He starts.

Brienne and Davos share a look that lets him know they’ve already talked about it.

“You can’t miss the wedding,” Davos says after a few moments. “At best, it’s a slight. At worst, it’s seen as defiance. The Queen needs allies to hold the lands she’s just conquered, and for better or worse, you’re one of the few she has.”

“Podrick and I can accompany you,” Brienne offers, “While Davos maintains Storm’s End in your absence.”

Gendry absorbs this information along with what Arya said the night before. “And what about the Baratheon loyalists?”

“Play dumb, lad.” Davos says with a resigned look on his face. “Much as it pains me to say it, the fact that you’re not from nobility works to your advantage. Many will assume you’re…”

“Lowborn?” Gendry says with an edge. He knows exactly what nobles think of that.

“Aye,” Davos says solemnly.

Gendry folds his hands in front of his mouth, frowning. “Then what happens if I stay in the Stormlands?”

“Maybe nothing.” Davos has a vaguely haunted look. “Or maybe she assumes the worst and acts on it.”

“What would that be?”

“That you’re calling bannermen,” Brienne says.

Gendry snorts at that. “Half the nobility in the Stormlands won’t respond to ravens.”

“Her Grace doesn’t know that,” Davos counters. “The Stormlands aren’t the most populated kingdom, but there’s the potential to raise some thirty thousand on the outside. And we’ve ships.” His expression tenses. “Not as many after Blackwater, but enough."

 _Thirty thousand._ Gendry wants to laugh. Like he knew what to do with thirty thousand of anything, much less call it to rebellion.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, Gendry,” Davos says. “But you’ve this castle because she put you here. Her decree is what’s keeping the half of the Stormlands that _do_ answer ravens happy. I worry what the loss of support would mean, not only for you, but your lands.”

“And you think I’d lose support just because I don’t attend a bloody wedding?”

“I think it’s best not to risk it.”

Gendry sits, thoughts racing. He knows what it’s like when lords fight each other. Knows who ultimately pays that price. And, as uncomfortable as it makes him, he understands that he’s not the only one his decisions affect.

Davos said it was mostly smallfolk who’d burned up. The thought turned his stomach.

“Alright,” he concedes, feeling miserable. “We’ll ride for King’s Landing.”


	5. interlude: arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> going to have little interludes every couple chapters that incorporate non-gendry POVs. here's arya's to kick things off :'D
> 
> <3

_**interlude: arya.** _

She stands under a stone archway, watching motionlessly as the rain pours down. It collects on the ground, the perpetually wet dirt giving way to mud. The smallfolk wade through it with a practiced balance, like they’ve done it one hundred times. Every once in a while, there’s the forked flash of lightning that gives way to thunder. No one even flinches when the hollowing booms echo around them. No one looks unhappy, however. Not even with rainwater soaking through their clothes and their boots sinking. A few of the servants’ children start squealing with laughter as they jump into puddles and it makes her smile, memories of snowball fights coming to mind.

“You having fun yet?”

Arya doesn’t stop her observations as Sandor stands next to her. He smells like wine and fish. “Are you?

“I’m fucking bored,” the big man crosses his arm and leans against the wall. His heavy brows raise as he looks up at the sky. “Nothing here but piss-poor weather and people covered in shit.”

She rolls her eyes at that. “People are covered in shit everywhere.”

Sandor snorts. “When we leaving?”

“Probably for the wedding,” she mutters.

“So we came here from King’s Landing to go back to fucking King’s Landing?”

Arya doesn’t bristle, because she’s been too well trained for that, but the impulse is there. “No one’s making you stay with me.”

There’s a long silence in which Arya can sense Sandor’s discomfort. They’d found each other again about a month after what they were already calling the Great Burning. He’d been held up in a healer’s ward in the Red Keep, half his body crushed and the other half burned. She’d gone to see him as soon as the rumors hit her ears. Sandor still had trouble sitting a horse, but when Arya told him her plans to leave the capital, he decided to follow.

She thinks that Sandor, like her, doesn’t know what to do now.

“We rode out here for a fuck ton of nothing,” he grumbles.

Arya’s jaw clenches tightly. Not sure why she’s angry, just that she is.

Sandor scowls at her, like he wants her to say something about it. When she doesn’t, he shakes his head.

“I’m getting a fucking drink,” he says, turning and heading toward where she knows the mead hall is.

Arya stays where she is once he’s left, frowning.

\--

Once the rain lets up, she leaves the confines of the fortress easily enough. First she walks through the village surrounding the fortress. It’s not quite as big as Winter Town, but it reminds her of it in attitude if not in appearance. Most of the houses are made of stone with thickly thatched roofs, but there are a few newer-looking ones built from wood. The market isn’t open-aired, but underneath awnings and canopies likely to keep the rain out. A few merchants travel in and out, their wagon wheels kicking up mud.

She walks, trying to learn this place. And she listens.

Most smallfolk don’t spend their time discussing Lords, but Gendry’s name comes up every once in awhile. They talk about him attending a smallfolk wedding a few nights ago, their exchange when she first arrived making a little more sense but not much. One man mentions Gendry helping to set up a retaining wall a fortnight ago. There’s even more talk when she passes by a forge, and she’s not surprised he’s found his way there. Apparently Gendry’s been teaching a few of the apprentices how to work with ores other than iron. Her lips twitch at the news.

They like him.

Arya reaches the village’s limits, taking in the nearby cliff face and the infamous Shipbreaker Bay beyond it. The water is relatively calm today, and so she can make out jagged black marks sticking out of the water. They said over a thousand ships were still in the bay, downed by the storms. Yet people still sailed out of Storm’s End. Stubborn bulls all around.

Arya returns back to the village, where she walks for another hour until her curiosity subsides. She decides she likes it less than Winterfell or the Free Cities, but more than King’s Landing.

Then she wonders why it matters if she likes it at all.

\--

When she gets back, there’s a crowd forming. It’s relatively ordered for the amount of people, and it slides into place that these people are petitioners. Curious despite herself, she blends in and enters the receiving hall when they do.

The inside of Storm’s End isn’t as dark as the outside of the fortress had her believe. The unhewn stone walls are a light grey from weather-wear, the floors a dull color that reminds her of driftwood. Above them are candles lit atop hanging, iron circles. Her eyes catch on the tapestries once again, meticulously embroidered stories that make her think of Sansa. She’d expected to see more stuffed, dead animals and maybe an attached brothel for Robert Baratheon’s ancestral home, but remembered that the last lord of Storm’s End had been his brother Stannis, and before that his brother Renly.

Arya wonders what Gendry’s learned about them. How he felt, carrying on their names.

She never has a hard time moving through crowds, and so she slips easily through the petitioners, unnoticed. Eventually she finds a place where she can observe without being seen.

Gendry sits in the middle table, flanked on either side by Davos and Brienne. He’s dressed in proper lordly attire. It’s too hot for furs, so he’s just in some dark brown leathers. Arya sees the strange detailing on his shoulders and a small frown makes its way between her brows. They almost look like wolf claw marks.

She doesn’t know how long she watches, but she smirks whenever he loses his patience with the nobles--one or twice he starts saying what she suspects is “fuck off” before Davos clears his throat and he stops. The smirk softens when he listens as seriously to the smallfolk claims as he does the nobles, or when he asks Brienne for counsel and follows her suggestions.

Not once does he lie to anyone.

At some point, he must notice her, because he turns from the captain he’s been arguing with for the better part of ten minutes. Arya tenses at the way he looks at her. Like he’s always waiting for an answer to a question. She doesn’t have one.

But Gendry smiles, tentative.  
And Arya can’t stop herself from smiling back.

\--

She avoids the main hall for the rest of the day. Her thoughts and hands are restless, and after asking a few confused-looking servants, she finds the archery range. There’s a few guards practicing there already. They send her strange looks, but make no comment. Arya tucks the observation away--none of them look uncomfortable at a woman with a bow in her hand.

She steals a quiver from the wall and starts to shoot. The rhythmic motions settle and calm her thoughts. They always have. Soon, she falls into the pattern- draw, shoot, thunk.

Arya doesn’t know how long she’s there when she hears a quiet “My Lady.”

A few of the guards are more interested in her now at the address, but she ignores them. Instead, Arya lowers her bow.

“Podrick,” she greets, nodding.

He smiles, a little shy, but then takes the target to the side of her. He’s got his own bow and quiver, and wordlessly starts setting up.

“You know Arya’s fine,” she comments as she notches another arrow. Lets it fly. The two are friendly enough from Arya’s time spent training with Brienne.

“Of course, my Lady Arya.”

Arya’s eyes slide to him. And when she sees the hint of a smile on his lips she only shakes her head. They fire at targets in companionable silence. At some point, it starts getting dark and the guards make their leave with just a few more curious glances sent her way. Arya doesn’t know why fishermen’s wives and laundresses are associated with rumors--soldiers are the biggest gossips she knows.

She fires a few more rounds.

“Do you like it here?” She asks, shooting.

“Well enough,” Podrick replies, firing as well. His is a little off-center, but still a decent shot. “It’s warmer than Winterfell, anyways.”

“Muddier, too.”

“Still prefer mud to snow, if you don’t mind me saying.”

_Thunk. Thunk._

“Tuck your elbow in a little more,” she suggests without having looked at him.

His next shot is a near bull’s eye. Arya nods. “Good.”

“...I like the people here,” Podrick offers unprompted. “And I think Ser Brienne likes being back at Storm’s End, although she won’t voice such things.”

“She’s lived here before?”

“Aye, in Renly’s service. Then as part of his Kingsguard. Before...well.”

She notices the quick glance Podrick sends her, although he tries to hide it. “Lord Gendry respects her counsel.”

 _Lord Gendry._ Hearing it is odd. So far she’s only heard Sandor refer to him as Lord Twat, which wasn’t the same.

“I noticed during the petitions.”

“She’s in charge of the guard as well. Lord Gendry’s left it up to her to decide on recruits.”

Arya gives a little hum. If Brienne’s in charge of the guard, she wouldn’t be surprised if women would start being trained. “I’m sure the nobles love that.”

Podrick clears his throat, looking a little uncomfortable. “Lord Gendry does not always listen to the nobles.”

Arya almost laughs-

“Ser Davos had a difficult time securing a match because of it, at first. Seems to be going a bit better now that he's hosted some.”

-and then she doesn’t. Her next arrow lands a little harder. They practice in silence once again, Podrick having sensed the conversation dying out.

After a bit, he asks her another question. This one quiet and hesitant.

“Were you there?”

Arya immediately knows what he means. Unbidden, it all comes back: the screams, the smell of blood and burning flesh that will never, ever leave her. A child clutching on to a small, wooden horse. Ceilings caving in around her. A man who looked a little too much like Gendry grabbing her shoulders and asking for his wife. Arya swallows.

“Yes,” she says, hand shaking a little when she grabs the next arrow.

“And Lord Tyrion?”

That, she remembers, too. She’d been far enough away that she couldn’t see his face, but the last of the Lannisters of Casterly Rock did not try to run in face of the dragon or its Queen.

“He suffered,” she says, knowing the words are cruel but that a lie would be crueler.

Podrick swallows tightly. And his next arrow lands a little harder, too.

-

“Seems like this is where I always find you.”

Arya closes her eyes at Gendry’s voice, and fires her last arrow before she turns to face him. Podrick looks at her, then Gendry, and mumbles an excuse before bowing his head and leaving.

Gendry stands outside of the wooden half-walls that surround the range. He seems worn. And he also like he’s struggling with something.

Arya lowers her bow, concerned. “What is it?”

“I just talked with Davos and Brienne.”

Her heart seems to thrum in her chest. But her voice betrays nothing. “And?”

“And you’re not going to like it.”

She sets the bow down and walks over to him, the pair still separated by the wooden wall. Blood’s rushing in her ears. She tries to be calm. To lay out, once again, why he should go to King’s Landing. But all she can think about is the narrowed streets in King’s Landing that still smelled of burned hair. The barest hunch in Tyrion Lannister’s shoulders before “ _Dracarys”_ echoed throughout the public square. The thud of her father’s head hitting the platform and the crowd’s cheers that followed it. The last time she talked to Jon, his eyes dull and words flat. And Arya’s heels dig into the mud.

“You’re not going.”

The words have an immediate effect. Gendry glares, mouth going into a thin line.

“What? You get to ride in on your white horse and make all my decisions?”

“Yes.”

“The seven gods-damned hells you do!” He’s yelling now.

And she’s yelling back. “You clearly can’t make the right one!””

He spreads his arm wide. “In case you haven’t noticed, that’s not up to you here, _milady_!”

“Because you’re a lord now?”

“Yeah,” he says, and his eyes seem impossibly bright even with the smallest of veins visible on his forehead. “Because I’m a bloody lord, now! I don’t _get_ to run around making decisions based on only what _I_ want to do! I don’t get to hop on a fucking horse and run away!”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he visibly winces. But it doesn’t matter. They both know he meant what he said. Anger’s beating along with her pulse, but it’s changing--burned out and becoming something small and cold.

“You think I wanted to do that?” She finally asks.

His throat works but his eyes are hard. “I think you chose to do that.”

Arya looks away, voice quiet and level once more. “You’d better get back to your castle, my Lord.”

“Arya…”

Gendry doesn’t seem to know how to finish the sentence, and she doesn’t know how to respond to it. So eventually, he does what she says, and she lets loose another arrow.

\--

That night she can’t sleep, and there’s no more names left to say. Arya lays on her back, hands folded over her stomach.

Their argument plays over in her head. Round and round. Eventually the circle expands, and she thinks about Gendry and his petitioners. Davos introducing him to ladies. The tapestry outside his quarters that showed his ancestor being brought back to Storm’s End as a wife only after she was defeated. The whispers of nobles at court, ones that started with “Robert’s Rebellion” too many times and the sickness she felt at them.

She wonders why she can’t just say it, not even to herself. Wonders if there’s something in her that just doesn’t work like it’s supposed to.

\--

The next morning she marches into his quarters, shoving the door without ceremony. The room is dark still, but she makes out the large bed with a golden-yellow canopy over it.

The sound of her forcible entrance rouses him awake, furs dropping when he sits and revealing a bare chest. He digs the heel of his hand into his eyes and his voice is groggy.

“Arya?” A beat. “Arya! What the hell-!”

“I’m riding with you,” she states. There’s no room for debate.

He drops his hand, blue eyes trained on where she stands at the foot of his bed. “Riding _where_?”

She sighs. Because he really is stupid, sometimes.

“To King’s Landing.” Arya refuses to be unsure, to be vulnerable, so she adds: “You’ll be killed without me.”

And before he can say anything, or truly wake up, she storms out just as quickly as she stormed in.


	6. shireen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've lost all self-control so here is another chapter :'|
> 
> THANK YOU for the comments & kudos so far <3 I'll be catching up with comments shortly :D

It doesn’t take long for the rumors to start. Gendry’s not sure why he’s surprised--soldiers were the biggest gossips he knew, and Arya had spent most of her time this week with Brienne’s guard. Which was fine, since he was still working on not being completely pissed at her. The space was probably a good thing. Truly.

But now the stories have gotten to the point where Gendry felt the need to start a list. So far:

-Arya was not Arya at all, but a representative from the Iron Bank come to financially ruin Storm’s End in repayment for the goods lost to Shipbreaker Bay. He’d have to look into that one.

-Arya was part of Daenerys Targaryen’s court, come to serve as a cultural attache. The idea of Arya representing _anything_ that required civility made him laugh.

-Arya was the daughter of a noble house, her mother having sent her in hopes that the Stormland’s notoriously bad weather would make her fall ill and she’d be forced to stay at Storm’s End, bedridden with only their young, unwed lord to attend to her. That one was just ridiculous, even if it made his ears feel hot when he heard some guards laughing over it.

Or...

-Arya was Arya, the wild and estranged daughter of House Stark. In those cases, no one could think of a reason for her to be here, because no one knew enough about her to guess.

Gendry tried not to let the last one bother him, but it had wormed its way under his skin all the same. Not for the first time, he wonders where she went. He’s determined she left Westeros at some point, possibly for years. It’s just another thing about her that he doesn’t understand anymore.

He thinks about the thick scars, coating her stomach and curling around her side. What happened to Arry?

The latest gossip breaks his thoughts as he walks by a sparring circle (apparently she was now Podrick’s runaway wife, come to repent). Gendry runs a hand down his face, his feet stopping when he hears the clang of steel across the yard.

Arya spars with Brienne, the two having drawn a crowd. She moves unlike any other fighter he’s seen, all quick and in one motion. Gendry never got to see her fight with the weapon he had made her, and so he tries to picture it now. It fits, with how she favors light steps and using her core to do most of the fighting. It’s not at all like how he or Brienne fight, hacking and slashing and pummelling.

He moves closer, curious. Needle flickers in the afternoon light, and he has no idea how Arya intends to use that small thing against Brienne’s longsword. But she does, the tiny sword swerving up, down, the point aiming for Brienne’s chest or throat before the knight swats it away.

Soldiers part when he walks closer, but go back to their spectating when all he does is wave a hand at them to do so. Gendry crosses his arms, watching Arya’s form--what side she favors, where most of the force for her attacks comes from. Whether Needle is too heavy or too light in her grip, what length of blade would be useful for her strikes. His mind starts working like it does with Podrick’s games, although the pieces slide together a little easier. It helps that he knows what her customized weapon was.

Brienne throws an elbow into Arya’s gut. Everyone collectively winces, but Gendry just smiles when he watches Arya retaliate by kicking Brienne hard behind the knee. Both women stumble.

“A draw, my lady?” Brienne offers, the two of them panting hard.

“Alright,” Arya agrees.

The two nod at each other, and it’s then that Arya notices she has an audience. Gendry doesn’t move when she walks to him, though he feels the soldiers’ eyes on them both and already dreads yet another round of rumors.

“How much longer?” She asks, to the point as always.

“Davos is finalizing provisions. We can head out tomorrow.”

Arya nods, and she looks sweaty and tired, and so Gendry pulls out a piece of cloth from his belt and hands it to her. It’s a habit of his to carry them around, since sweat in the eyes at the forge can mean striking a thumb or worse. Relief fills him when he verifies this one is clean.

Arya sends him a strange look, but accepts his offering. Her fingers graze over his palm when she takes it from his hand and…

...and he misses her. It should be impossible to miss someone right in front of you. But he does. Because he doesn’t know the right way to talk to her anymore. And that’s the loneliest realization in the world.

“I still don’t want you to go,” she says.

“I don’t really want to go, either.” Gendry tries to make himself smile, to make his words a little lighter because he doesn’t want to lose his temper and doesn’t want to see her lose hers, either. “Maybe I’ll be able to fuck off back to Flea Bottom before we get to the Keep.”

Arya smiles back at him, but it’s not the same. Hers is sad. “There’s not much of a Flea Bottom, anymore.”

And Gendry feels numb when it slides into place. “You were there when it happened, weren’t you? Not with the armies, but…”

With the smallfolk. In the city. He thinks of his own neighborhood, the homes crammed together. The way streets were so narrow people pushed and shoved each other even when they weren’t in a panic. All the cloth and straw and wood. All the noise from the vendors and street rats and what it would be like if those were screams, instead.

He exhales, a little shaky. “Arya, I’m sorry.”

Gendry expects her usual cold brush-off or deflection, or even for her to deny it, but she surprises him by whispering “Thank you.”

He moves before he really thinks about it. One of his arms wraps around her middle, pulling her to him. His other one cradles the back of her head as he embraces her. She’s so much shorter and smaller than him that hugging Arya makes him feel a bit like a blanket.

Hesitantly, her arms come around him and he feels her palms pressed against his back. It’s not the same as how it used to be, when they were kids, but there’s something familiar still. And things are still tense, and he’s probably still mad at her, but this isn’t really about them right now. This is...this is grounding. And maybe grieving--for what Arya saw, for what Gendry can imagine.

“Your soldiers are talking,” she mutters, not moving.

“Yeah,” he says, pressing her closer. “They’re good at that.”

\--

He sups with Davos that night, the two of them finalizing travel plans and how Davos would act on his behalf for the two months they were gone. At some point, Davos had opened a cask of wine.

“You’re on your way to becoming a fine Lord, lad,” he offers without prompting. At Gendry’s shocked expression, he smiles wryly. “Bit of a temper to work on, but everything else aside.”

“Our nobles hate me.”

“At least they’re hating you for the right reasons.”

Gendry has to smile at that. “Still can’t write well.”

“Not well’s an improvement from not at all. It’s a hard thing to learn.” His eyes spark with humor. “Now imagine doing it at _my_ age? Least you still have strong eyes.”

It never occured to Gendry that Davos hadn’t know letters since childhood, but it made sense. Another Flea Bottom boy, as he was so fond of calling him. “How’d you do it, then?”

Davos goes still. “Ah, that…I have the Lady Shireen to thank for it.”

His cousin. Stannis’ daughter. Gendry knows almost nothing about her, other than she was young and then she was dead.

“Kinder than her father, I take it?”

Davos near flinches. But after a moment, he nods. “Aye. Kindest soul I’ve ever had the luck to know.”

“...what was she like?”

“Dear,” Davos says simply. “Wonderful and brave.” He swallows. “A good girl.”

Gendry wants to ask why she’s not here in his stead, but the barely concealed pain on Davos’ face tells him not to. Maybe one day he’ll know, but it’s not going to be tonight.

So he reaches over, refills Davos’ cup.

“Got any good stories?”

\--

That night, he learns about Shireen Baratheon. She was an avid reader, and could recite any tale of Aegon the Conqueror by memory. Like Gendry, she had a good head for sums and maths. She hardly ever left Dragonstone, and so for fun she would watch birds from out of her window and draw them in her notebooks. Not once, Davos tells him with a grin, did she ever tolerate an old man’s foolishness.

She’d liked stories about pirates and swordfights. Her favorite animal was a deer, because of the love she bore her father.

He’s had no cause to love any members of his House. His father had been a drunk and a whoremonger and a fucking terrible king. His uncle had let him be assaulted and bled dry by the Red Woman.

But he thinks he would’ve liked his cousin.

\--

Shortly after dawn, Gendry readies for the long ride ahead. He’s taking thirty men with him, a number Davos recommended because it made him look a little less powerful than the other lords, who would arrive with full retinues. Thirty men, a knight, her squire, the fucking Hound, and Arya felt powerful enough to him.

Gendry’s fingers are working at his saddlebag, trying to tie his war hammer properly to it, when Arya is at his side.

“Morning,” he greets, eyes trained on his task.

Today she’s back to that flat expression he hates. “Thirty men isn’t enough.”

“That’s the idea,” he mutters, fingers that suddenly feel too fat working out the leather ties.

“What do you mean?”

Gendry sighs, surrendering his work and pivoting to face her. “Just being a bastard upstart, is all.”

Arya scowls, “You’re not a-”

He sees understanding cross her face, but the scowl remains.

“...smart,” she concedes, not sounding happy about it.

“Think I should start throwing my own shit halfway through a feast?”

Arya looks angry. “You shouldn’t joke like that.”

“Why not? Someone is.”

Her eyes narrow. “They don’t know you.”

“Probably because they think I’m not worth knowing. Guess we’ll see how much owning a castle changes High Born opinions.”

“Gendry…”

“What?” And he doesn’t mean to snap, because he doesn’t want to start the day out mad, but he does and he is.

Arya steps forward, until she’s completely in his space. And his anger dissipates to immediately be replaced by nerves. She only looks at him for a second, before her attention turns to his saddlebag. With quick, graceful movements, she undoes the knot he’s been struggling with. Reties it.

“You’re better than all of them,” she states, stepping away and heading back to her own horse before he can say anything.

She could’ve punched him straight in the stomach and had the same effect.

\--

Saying goodbye to Davos is unsurprisingly difficult.

"Send ravens as soon as you arrive," he says, walking along with Gendry as he leads his horse to the causeway outside the gate.

"I will."

"Don't let on about your reading, either."

"I won't."

"Gendry..."

He looks at him.

Davos frowns. "King's Landing...it'll be difficult to see. Even now. Make sure you're prepared for it."

Gendry's thoughts drift to his conversation with Arya the day before. "I'll try."

Davos sends him another look. "Keep your wits about you."

He nods. "If I don't get back, make sure you keep things going here." Gendry's fingers tighten on the reins. "And don't come after me."

Davos absorbs the order. Then ignores it in order to hug him. "You'll get back."

Gendry swallows. "Yeah. I'll get back."

\--

An hour later they start their journey. It’s unbearably hot, but it’s also unbearably stupid to be travelling on the King’s Road without armor on, and so everyone gets to cook. It seems to bother him the most, his hand tugging at his collar and his body fidgeting in his seat.

“You squirm anymore and I’m throwing you on the fucking ground.”

He sighs. “They might shoot you for it.”

The Hound snorts. “It’d be worth it.”

Gendry sends him a slow look. Truth be told, he has no idea whether the Hound likes him or not. Or, at the least, wants to kill him or not. But they fought together during the Battle, and even if the Hound didn’t like Gendry he definitely liked Arya, so there was at least some shared sentiment between them.

“Stare anymore and I’ll throw you for that, too.”

“So you’ll throw me twice?”

The Hound glares at him. “Might as well say whatever it is you want to say, Lord Twat.”

 _Why are you here?_ Is what he actually wants to ask, but he already knows the answer he’d get: _Fuck off._

“How’d you and Arya meet up again?”

The Hound’s jaw tightens. “There was a huge fucking fire.”

Before Gendry can say anything, the Hound digs his heels into the sides of his horse and rides pointedly ahead of him. So much for that.

“An unpleasant man,” Brienne says, moving into the Hound’s place. Aside from just the smallest of a sweat sheen on her brow, she seems entirely unaffected by the weather. And she’s in damn near full plate.

“You’re being nice,” he agrees.

“Still, it was kind of the Lady Arya to escort us. Despite her present company.”

His hands grip the reins a little harder. “It was.”

“If I may, my lord?”

“Sure.”

“How do you know each other?”

“Because I’m just a lowly bastard?” Slips out before he can stop it. Then he shakes his head. The heat’s getting to him and Brienne, of all people, does not deserve his temper. “Sorry. I know you didn’t mean that.”

“I did not.”

He rolls his shoulders. “We were both smuggled out of King’s Landing after her father died.”

A small ‘v’ appears between her brows. “When you were children?”

“Yeah.”

Brienne seems to process this. “It is fortunate you’ve found each other, then. She seems happier in your company.”

His head snaps to her.

“What?” Because Arya’s been pissed and demanding and cold, but happy?

“I regret that I do not know the Lady Arya as well as her sister,” she begins. “But she is in better spirits than I’ve seen before.”

Gendry’s not sure what to make of that, other than the fact that Brienne’s maybe not as observant as he thought. And so he tries to change the subject.

“You ever been to King’s Landing?”

“Yes.”

“At court?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like it?”

“It is the single most miserable place I’ve ever been, my Lord.”

Brienne says it so earnestly that the laugh escapes him in a huff of disbelief. Brienne’s normally stoic expression cracks into a little grin.

\--

The rest of the first day is spent talking to or riding in companionable silence with Brienne. At one point Podrick joins them, but Arya keeps her distance. He’s not sure what to make of that.

They make camp when it gets dark, and he’s uncomfortable to see that some of his men have set his tent for him. Someone gets a fire going, and that discomfort deepens when the thirty riding with him start their own, smaller fire a few feet away from his. He’d always hate camping on the road--too many rapers and murders, and for most of his travels he’d been responsible for both Arya and Hot Pie. The ground was cold and they’d always ate shit like gamey squirrels or mushrooms they had to gamble on.

Now he’s surrounded by armed men, three rabbits roasting on a spigot, and a tent with a cot prepared for him. When he sees a soldier start unrolling his bedroll next to the fire, a sudden and intense longing fills him. Their lives had been dangerous and miserable, but he’d never felt like a stranger to himself.

\--

The next morning is just as hot and terrible as the last one. And the one after that. When they make camp on the third night, he decides he’s tired of waiting and moves to sit next to her by the fire.

“Why’re you avoiding me?”

“I’m not avoiding you.”

“Pretty sure not speaking or looking at me counts as avoiding.”

Arya rolls her eyes, and he’s a little thrown off by how much younger she looks at the action. But he doesn’t get a chance to properly react, because she grabs his wrist and tugs him to where she’s sitting. He falls down.

“The hell-”

Arya ignores him, pointing from where they sit. “You can see the road better from here, and also into those trees.” She shakes her head. “The tents are facing the wrong direction.”

“...what?”

“Thirty men isn’t enough.”

He frowns. She has no idea how frustrating she is when she gets like this.

Arya reads his expression. “I’ve been riding rear because Brienne and the Hound are taking point.”

“You’ve been...guarding me?”

She doesn't say anything. Gendry stares at her. He supposes other men would feel threatened or intimidated at the idea of someone like Arya protecting them. But he’s....

He watches her profile. The fire casts her face in orange light and shadow and it’s times like these where it hurts just to _look_ at her.

“Who’s watching you, then?”

Arya stares at the fire. “I don’t need to be watched.”

“I know that.” Gendry’s close enough that the side of his arm is pressed against hers. “It doesn’t always have to be about need.”

She turns to look at him, having to tilt her head back slightly in order to meet his gaze. All he’d have to do is lean forward, a little.

His mouth feels dry and his palms feel sweaty, which is ridiculous for a hundred different reasons. And it’s awful. Having hope like this is awful-- like a hammer, trying to beat out all the dents.

“Why are you here?” He finally asks.

At least she doesn’t play dumb with him. Arya sits with the question as if she’s been expecting it, a thousand answers running through her head. Gendry waits. He’s not a patient man on his best day, but he’ll wait for this.

“I don’t have many people left,” she settles on. The words are level, but that’s not all she uses to tell him: her lips are pressed together, her body tensed up as though she’s worried.

Gendry doesn’t break his gaze from hers.

“I don’t either,” he says carefully, hoping she understands.

Slowly, she nods. He swallows. It's a small moment, but he thinks for right now it's enough.

Arya stands. “Goodnight, Gendry.”

When she leaves, he sighs but doesn’t try to follow her.

“G’night Arya,” he tells the fire.


	7. we're pack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idek at this point BUT HAVE ANOTHER
> 
> two things:
> 
> -im pulling a baelish and bending space-time-geography so they can go to the Inn. no apologies
> 
> -we might get a rating's bump :'|

The next morning, he sees something truly disturbing. And before he thinks about it too much, he lets his horse fall toward the back of the line so he can tell the person he first thinks of to tell.

“Arya.”

One of her brows raise. “Gendry.”

“They’re talking,” he mutters, head tilted and eyes squinted. “All...civil-like.”

Arya follows his gaze. A few feet ahead, the Hound and Brienne’s horses are side by side. True enough, they look like they’re having an amicable conversation. At least for them. The Hound keeps spitting on the ground and Brienne’s mouth sets into a firm line every time he does.

“Huh,” she says. “Last time I saw them together she beat the shit out of him.”

The snort escapes him before he can stop it. “Would’ve paid to see that.”

“He should’ve died,” she says matter of factly, but she looks almost sad. “I wanted him to, at the time.”

Yet another mystery for him to figure out. Before Winterfell, the last time he’d seen Arya and the Hound together was when she was screaming for his death. He’s hesitant to broach the subject, since the last thing he wants is for Arya to shut him out again, but he wants to know.

“When’d you stop wanting him to?”

Arya sits silent for a moment, thinking about it as her horse slowly rocks her from side to side. “We traveled together for a long time, after the Red Woman took you.”

Gendry’s jaw clenches without him realizing it.

“He brought me to the…” Arya takes a slow inhale, like she’s gathering herself up for something. “We went to the Twins, first. Then the Vale. Somewhere along the way, I didn’t want him dead. Then I did. Then I didn’t. I was confused...” Arya shrugs. “Then I wasn’t.”

It sounds like plots on a map. A to B to C. But Gendry knows what happened at the Twins. Everyone knew. The thought that she could’ve been there-

“I’m glad you didn’t make it to the wedding,” is all he offers.

“No.” Arya looks at him then, eyes wide and sad. “I did.”

The ride together is quiet after that. At some point, he reaches over to briefly squeeze her hand, and she squeezes his back.

\--

When they stop for a brief rest, he watches as Arya makes conversation with some of the men accompanying them. They stand by a river, watering the horses and refilling flasks and skins. She’s not as animated as she used to be, less piss and vinegar and calling people stupid to their faces. But he can tell she’s listening to them, and that when she says something they listen back. A handful even laugh. Part of it stings, a little bit, to see Arya get on with the men he should probably know better by now.

Because Gendry’s never had that easy way about him. Most of his life has been spent being stubborn and angry, ready to fight because almost everyone he’d ever known wanted him kicked down. Arya and Hot Pie were the first ones to really get anything more out of him then a solid Fuck You.

Arya looks over her shoulder. Their eyes meet. With a small, motion, she nods toward the river.

He doesn’t exactly drag his feet, but it’s close. The soldiers visibly pause, trying to read what’s about to happen.

“Stop being a lazy ass and help me fill these up,” she demands, tossing him a flask.

Gendry rolls his eyes, catching it. “Why don’t you just say when you want something done?”

“Because you should know better.”

“Thought I never know anything better?”

“Shut up and fill it.”

He grumbles, but there’s a bit of an unwinding in his chest when he bends down to the river and fills all the skins Arya gives him. It’s like they’re kids again, fitting into those old and easy patterns. At one point, he even kicks some water at her when she’s being a shit. Her responding glare makes him laugh like he hasn’t in a while.

“You look like a wet cat.”

“You look like a stupid bull.”

“Cat of the Rivers, they’ll call you.”

She throws a flask at his head. He barely dodges in time. “Doesn’t even sound right,” he catches her mumble.

Eventually, the soldiers start to unwind. After a few minutes, they begin talking among each other the same way they were before he got there. Then they start talking with Arya again, and eventually him. Ory was a friend of Willis, and had been at their wedding too. Cedric and Roy have been giving Steffen constant shit for being to shy to talk to a weaver back in the village. Ronard’s eldest son was one of the apprentice blacksmiths he’d been helping to train.

That night, he and Arya sit at one of the smaller fires with a few of them.

“Think they all hate me?” He asks lightly, but feels anything but, when it’s just the two of them. It’s late, and they left the soldiers to their bedrolls in favor of the fire in front of his tent.

Arya sends him a strange look. “Who?”

And that makes him scoff, shaking his head a little. They’re sharing a skin of Sandor’s ale that Arya had pilfered at some point during the ride. He drinks, then passes it to her.

“I don’t know. Everyone.”

“Why would anyone hate you?”

Gendry doesn’t know if she’s making fun of him, so he glares a bit. When she only stares at him without elaborating, he sighs.

“Forget I said anything,” he mutters under his breath.

He brings his elbows to rest on his knees, absently picking at a piece of grass between his fingers.

“They like you,” Arya says. “The people in your village.” There’s a pause, and he keeps his attention very firmly on the grass. “You’re a good Lord.”

Gendry doesn’t know what to say. Arya’s not one to lie. But at the same time, he’s having a hard time accepting it.

“Thanks,” he settles on.

“You’re welcome.”

Arya leans over to give him the skin at the same time he decides to face her. It results in his chin barely missing a connection with her forehead. He lets out a quiet laugh at that, pulling back.

“Sorry-”

And whatever he’s about to apologize for dies on his tongue. Because Arya’s watching him, her lips slightly parted. One of her hands is supporting her weight on one of his thighs. And he’s forgotten how to make his brain connect to the rest of his body.

She leans forward, and her lips lightly brush his. It lasts less than a second before she pulls away.

“Should I have done that?” Arya whispers.

No, he thinks. Yes, he thinks louder. Then he tells himself to just shut up and he kisses her hard.

His heart’s about to hammer its way out of his chest, but the rest of it feels like muscle memory, even though he hasn’t been with anyone since Arya. One of his arms comes around her waist right when she grabs at the front of his doublet and pulls him forward. A little off balance, he adjusts for it by pulling Arya onto his lap. It goes straight to his cock when she straddles him, a knee on either side of him. Then she parts her lips, and he takes advantage of it.

The hand on her waist grips a little tighter than he probably should, but he doesn’t have a choice, really, when after a while she sinks her weight completely onto his lap, right on top of him, and memories of Winterfell come back to him. And fuck, it’s been less than five minutes and he’s half hard already. Fucking embarrassing-

Arya bites on his lower lip and now it’s a little more than half. _Tent!_ His brain is screaming at him. _Get to the bloody tent-_

There’s a metallic clang-- as though something’s been dropped or kicked.

It’s like someone slammed his head under frozen water. Like pins and needles, Gendry becomes aware of the fact that he’s got Arya Stark on his lap, that one of her hands is resting on the waistband of his trousers, and he’s painfully hard and it’s probably just as painfully obvious.

Wincing, he looks past Arya.

And Podrick Payne is trying to discreetly pick up a saddlebag that’s been knocked over in front of them. Which looks difficult, since he’s pointedly not looking in their direction.

Gendry looks at him, back to Arya, back to Podrick, and he would really like her to tell him what to do.

She doesn’t break eye contact with him, but slowly she stands up. “Good night,” she says, voice even.

“G’night,” he replies, doing his best not to have his voice hitch.

Arya straightens her clothes, and turns around, passing by the squire who still has not looked away from the ground. “Podrick.”

He gives a little cough. “Arya.”

Gendry watches her go, and before she steps into the tent she’s sharing with Brienne, she sends him a little smile and he’s just as done for as he was the day he showed up to Winterfell.

Podrick is now dutifully reattaching the saddlebag to his horse.

Gendry doesn’t dare risk standing. “It’s not…” Not what? What it looks like? It’s exactly what it looks like. “Um. Fuck.”

A long silence.

“I don’t normally take first watch. Usually it’s Sandor,” Podrick says carefully after a moment. “With two of the soldiers.”

It takes him a second, what with a lot of his blood no longer in his brain, but he understands what Podrick’s telling him. “I. Thanks, Podrick.”

He gives a little nod. Then leaves as quietly as possible.

Gendry lets go of a long groan, wondering what the fuck’s going to happen now.

\--

“Why’d you do that?” He demands, aggravated when it’s been about seven hours on the road and Arya has said absolutely nothing to him.

The pace of her horse matches his. “I asked if you wanted me to.”

He lets out a growl of frustration. “What I want’s never been a secret, Arya.”

“I know.”

“But you don’t tell me anything.”

“I know.”

“ _Then start._ ”

Arya bites down on her lower lip, eyes pointedly fixed on the road ahead of them. On the sight line, there’s the beginning of a village that marks the halfway point between Storm’s End and King’s Landing. They’d be staying at an inn tonight. Something the soldiers were more than happy about.

When she doesn’t say anything, he sighs, frustration growing. “You can’t just…” His jaw works. “You can’t just do that kind of thing and not mean it-”

“I meant it.”

“-because it _does_ mean something to me, and I’m not able to-” he stops. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Gendry blinks, mind scrambling to keep up. “...what do you mean, you mean?”

She looks annoyed, and he’s sure Arya’s not used to having to explain herself. “It means I meant it.”

“That’s not good enough-”

“It should be.”

“It isn’t!”

He feels stares on them at the short outburst. Anger’s coloring his vision. And he just wants to kiss her again because he’s a complete fuck up around Arya, and that only makes him angrier. Why can’t she just tell him what she wants? Why can’t this just _work_?

“Do you even still want me?” He manages, even though the question damn near kills him. “Or am I just…” He can’t say the words he’s thinking-- nasty ones like _convenient_ and _easy--_ because he doesn’t want to know if that’s the truth. He really doesn’t. “I don’t want this to be about ringing bells, Arya.”

“You just want me to marry you.”

“Did I say that?”

“Yes!”

“For fuck’s sake that was one time-!”

And apparently they’ve been loud enough, now. Because Brienne is suddenly at his side with a look of concern on her face.

“Is everything alright, my Lord? Lady Arya?”

“Fine,” he grunts. “Perfect.”

He snaps the reins and moves his horse up earlier in the line.

\--

Two hours later, and they’re coming up on the inn they’ll be staying at.

“We should go to Hot Pie’s instead,” Arya says, suddenly at his side.

Gods help him, he almost jumps out of the fucking saddle. “He’s still there?”

She gives a nod. “I already told Brienne. The men can stay here.”

He wants to be mad at her for that, but he’d rather see Hot Pie. “Good. That’s good.”

Arya’s shoulders slump, just a little. “It’s not just about ringing bells,” she offers. “You’re pack, Gendry. I don’t know what it means beyond that. But you’re always going to be pack.”

She hops down, moving to help Brienne settle the soldiers. Gendry gets down after her, brows furrowed. Pack? Was that a metaphor?

\--

The inn is exactly as he remembers it, although there’s more people in it now. The rows of long wooden tables are full, candles casting the room in warm browns and yellows. Whatever’s cooking smells delicious, and his stomach gives a little lurch at the thought of eating something not strung through with a stick. He’s finally out of his armor, too, just wearing a simple linen shirt bunched up at his elbows. He almost feels normal. It’s just him, Brienne, and Podrick at the moment, Arya and the Hound staying behind to talk about something as they tied the horses.

Gendry’s eyes search the crowds, looking at all the servers to try and find his friend. Eventually his gaze lands on a man with a heaping tray of buns in his hands. Despite how long and relatively miserable this ride to King’s Landing has been, a genuine smile crosses Gendry’s face when he recognizes one of his few friends.

After a moment, he must sense his stare, because Hot Pie turns toward the door. His eyes bug out a bit, like he can’t believe who he’s seeing, but then he grins. Hot Pie is sure to gently set down his tray of rolls before he rushes forward to hug him.

“Gendry! What are you doing here?”

“Passing through,” he answers, hugging him back. “Heard the bread was decent.”

He gives a short chuckle as he moves back. “Where’s your hair?”

Gendry runs a hand over the top of his close-cropped head, a little self conscious. “Gone.”

“Makes you look older.”

“Thanks?”

Hot Pie nods, looking past him to where Brienne and Podrick stand. “Who’re your friends?”

“Ser Brienne of Tarth,” she introduces herself. “This is my squire, Podrick.”

“You hungry?”

“Starving,” Podrick states.

Brienne sends him a narrow look, before she clears her throat. “A meal would be nice.”

“Two minutes,” Hot Pie says, turning his attention back to Gendry. “Go ahead and sit. I’ve got a couple more trays to handout, but then I’ll be free.”

Gendry nods, grabbing a relatively open table. He makes sure there’s enough room for Arya, and even the Hound. A serving girl comes by and drops off tankards for all of them. As soon as his hits the table, the inn’s doors swing open and they walk in. He wonders if Arya or the Hound realize that their scowls and walks are near identical.

Arya moves into the seat beside him. “You seen Hot Pie?”

Gendry nods in his direction, and she follows it. A little grin forms on her face when she sees him talking animatedly to a woman around Gendry’s age. It makes Gendry grin, too.

Arya grabs his tankard.

“Get your own.”

She takes a sip, then slides it back to him. Then he’s annoyed when Podrick gives her his with a silent smile.

“Oh. This fuck,” The Hound says, as he sits next to Brienne, eyes following theirs. “Surprised he’s still alive.”

“Surprised you remember him at all,” Arya shoots back.

“How could I not, with all his whingeing?”

“Leave him alone.”

“Or what? He’ll throw fucking bread at me?”

“Hopefully stale ones. Maybe one will brain you.”

Gendry does not understand these two. At all. Thankfully, he’s spared listening to further death threats when Hot Pie shows up again. There’s beads of sweat on his forehead, as though he’s been by the oven.

“Thought I saw you too, Arry,” he says with a soft smile.

“Hot Pie,” she greets warmly. Her eyes fall to the tray and her eyes brighten. “Still making these?”

“Every once in a while. Lot of people like them.”

Gendry looks at the little direwolves made out of bread, and he presses his lips into a line so he doesn’t laugh. Then Hot Pie looks away from her.

“Are you wanting pies, or-?” His face goes pale when he notices their latest member.

“The fuck you looking at?” The Hound growls.

“Nothing,” Hot Pie says quickly, hands grabbing onto the tray a little tighter.

The Hound looks at the wolf-shaped bread Hot Pie’s made, then to Arya, before he snorts and goes to sit at an empty table instead.

“We’ll leave you to catch up,” Brienne says as she gets up to follow the Hound to his empty table. “Come on, Podrick.”

Hot Pie breathes an audible sigh of relief once the Hound’s gone, then places the bread in the center of the table before he sits on the other side of it.

“How’d you end up together?” He asks.

Gendry almost chokes on his ale. Arya only rolls her eyes at him.

“We’re heading to King’s Landing.”

“Isn’t it all burned up?”

Arya takes a drink. “It is.”

Hot Pie nods, looking sad. “It weren’t the best...but it was home. For a while, anyway.”

Gendry silently agrees, looking into the tankard and trying to wish his thoughts elsewhere.

“Can’t believe we’re all together again,” Hot Pie continues, clearly pressing past a conversation on King’s Landing. “Doesn’t Arry look pretty now, Gendry?”

He freezes, and out of the corner of his eye sees Arya’s small smirk at the question. His ears are warm. _All I know is that you’re beautiful and I love you._ “She does.”

Hot Pie’s eyes go from him to Arya, squinting a little as though he’s attempting a sum in his head. “Why were you heading to King’s Landing, again?”

“My brother’s getting married.”

“That’s right,” he says. “Don’t that make you a princess now?”

Arya’s nose wrinkles at the question. Gendry frowns at it.

“It does,” he answers for her, feeling foolish that he hadn’t considered it before.

“Doesn’t matter,” Arya says quickly. “I’m not staying at court. Or King’s Landing.”

“Oh. So you’re going back to Winterfell, then?”

A long pause. Gendry’s attention becomes singularly fixated as he waits for her answer. Arya doesn’t fidget, because she doesn’t do that anymore (he’s noticed), but she does look uncomfortable.

“Maybe,” she hedges.

 _Maybe._ He tries to figure out if he likes that answer or not, but he’s interrupted by Hot Pie asking him something else.

“So why are _you_ going to King’s Landing?”

It feels a little hot in the inn. Gendry takes a drink before he responds. “Same reason she’s going.”

Hot Pie’s expression is back to that one of mental maths. “What, you married now?” He smiles, looking like he’s just solved something. “That’s it, isn’t it? Why didn’t you tell me!”

Gendry can feel himself scowling, his hand tight on the handle of his mug. He’s told himself, countless times, that he’s not mad she said no. And really, he isn’t. But it rubs a little raw after what happened last night and the conversation earlier today.

“We’re not married,” he says, and it might be a bit through his teeth.

“Oh,” Hot Pie says. “That’s too bad.”

 _It is._ Gendry agrees.

Arya stands quickly. “I’ll go get another round,” she says, leaving for the bar.

Hot Pie watches her go, then leans toward Gendry. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No.” _I did._

Arya comes back with drinks, and Gendry finishes his faster than normal.

\--

After they’ve had a few, the tension between him and Arya starts to fade away. They listen to Hot Pie tell stories about what he’s heard at the inn. And a few times Gendry catches himself laughing. Arya, too. It’s his favorite sound in the world. _Arya’s_ his favorite in the world. Maybe he’s too into his cups.

“My Lord,” Brienne greets after a couple of hours have passed. “We’ll be retiring. I trust your friend can see you to your rooms?”

Gendry nods. “‘Night Brienne.”

“Goodnight,” she gives a nod at each of them, making her way to the stairs.

Hot Pie blinks. “Why’d she call you a Lord?”

Ugh. Gendry drinks some more.

“He is a Lord,” Arya says.

Hot Pie frowns. “Lord of what?”

“Storm’s End.”

His eyes go wide. “ _You’re_ Gendry Baratheon?”

Gendry sends him an incredulous look. “How many bloody Gendrys you know?”

“None that were Lords I didn’t think!”

“Well, I am now.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“Being born, I guess.”

Hot Pie looks at Arya. Then Gendry. “You think I might be a Lord, too?” He whispers, looking panicked.

Gendry snorts, rocking a little back on his bench. “Lord of bread, maybe.”

“It’s really good bread,” Arya agrees, cleaning butter off her thumb by sucking on it.

Fuck.

“You seem happier than last time,” Hot Pie slurs, rocking a little as well. “Was it good to go home?”

Gendry thinks about what that must’ve been like for her. What with the wights and all. She killed the main one. Because she was wonderful. And perhaps a little scary. But he liked that. He was definitely too into his cups.

“It was,” she says. Her eyes meet his. “Part of me wanted to stay there.”

He wants to kiss her right now. But it’d be strange to do it in front of Hot Pie. He settles for wrapping his arm around her waist. She tenses for a moment, before she rests her cheek against his bicep.

Hot Pie goes into a story about a time Anguy and Tom stopped by the inn, but Gendry doesn’t listen to it fully. Instead, he focuses on Arya, on how he warms wherever she touches.

\--

After another hour and two more drinks, he’s trying to not pass out on the table. Hot Pie and Arya’s laughter rings above him, and he smiles into the wood.

It’s then that what Arya said to him clicks into place.

 _Pack,_ he realizes. _That’s what this is. That’s what she meant._

Under the table, her hand is holding onto his.

_We’re pack._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SUPER INCREDIBLY HONORED TO SAY THAT THERE IS NOW FANART FOR THIS!! The amazing [aritou](https://aritou-stuff.tumblr.com/) drew out the ["We're Pack" scene from chapter 7](https://aritou-stuff.tumblr.com/post/185465387292/im-in-love-with-a-fanfic-belongs-to-the-talented) and it is THE CUTEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN.


	8. interlude: sandor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which sandor has BDE (big dad energy)
> 
> i know im really behind in replying to comments but THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THEM the response to this has blown my mind & has made it so much more fun to write <3 <3 <3 i'm reading every single one multiple times

He’d love to just kill the lot of them. First, he had to pull his Lordship off a table, then drag him up a set of stairs so he wouldn’t get murdered. Which was annoying enough, as the twat was as heavy in his body as he was in his head. Then, the drunk fuck called him Hot Pie and asked for another blanket. He’d kicked the featherbed at that.

After that, Sandor scowls as he looks down at Arya’s sleeping form, back at the same table. “Why that’s who rings your bells is fucking beyond me.”

She doesn’t answer, due to being half conscious, and he shakes his head before he goes to pick her up. Even in sleep, one of her hands reaches for a weapon. He swats away the knife, almost skewering her passed out bread-baking friend and not really caring a whole lot.

Arya hasn’t grown much the entire time he’s known her, and so he carries her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. “Down,” she growls.

“Shut up,” he growls back.

There’s a half-hearted punch, aimed exactly above a kidney, and then her head lolls down. Sandor grits his teeth and kicks at the door at the top of the stairs.

And then there’s Brienne of Tarth, blinking away sleep and wearing a simple tunic and trousers. “What is it?”

Sandor unceremoniously pushes past her, dumps Arya on a bed, and shoves his way back out into the tavern, where he fully intends to wake up that little friend of hers so he can get him another drink.

-

A few hours later, and Arya rides at his side. Her eyes look like two piss holes in the snow.

“Feel like death yet?”

Her response is an unintelligible snarl. One side of his mouth twitches up. But then his horse jostles a little too much, and his teeth clench.

Arya notices, because she can never let well enough alone. “How’s your side?”

Fucking agony. “Mind your damn business.”

She looks vaguely uncomfortable, like there’s a sliver in her skin. “We’ve done a lot of riding this month.”

“That’s what happens when you run off to Storm’s End to get some cock.”

It’s the first time he’s blatantly called her out on it, but he can tell it’s true by how angry her expression gets. “He’s a Lord Paramount.”

“Rich cock, then.”

“That’s not what I mean. His life was in danger.”

Sandor sends a dry look to the retinue that’s heading toward King’s Landing. “Good job on that, then.”

“Quit being such a shit.”

“You’d better make up your mind,” he says, voice a little more serious. “Because that mad dragon bitch is going to marry him off soon as she can. Just like your brother. Fuck, maybe she’ll do it herself. The Baratheons probably got enough Targaryen blood in them to get her off.”

He watches her, and so he sees the way her throat works. Good, he’s struck a nerve. 

“I’m not marrying anyone,” she says.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not a Lady.”

Sandor snorts, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “You think that dumb cunt’s going to be able to make you do anything you don’t want to do?”

Arya follows the gesture. Behind them both, Lord Twat has strapped himself to his horse. His head’s lolled back, and it’s clear he’s snoring even if they can’t hear him.

She’s got a stupid little smile on her face.

“Fuck’s sake,” Sandor mutters in disbelief.

\--

They stop for camp earlier that night, having made good time. He takes effort not to show it, but the relief on his leg and hip is damn near instant when he sits on the ground and stretches his leg out before him. Sandor straightens his spine, until it feels like the pain dulls. Fucking horses.

He’s biting off the stopper on one of his flasks (which seems less full than he remembers), when the tall bitch decides to sit next to him.

“What?” He barks, spitting the cork on the ground.

Brienne’s face pulls into that customary flat look. “You’ve been limping.”

“Piss off.”

“If you’d take one moment to listen rather than bite, you’d be surprised how much easier things can be,” Brienne admonishes. It’s then that he notices something at her side. She pulls out a small, leather-wrapped bundle and holds it before him. “Add this to your water.”

He glares at it, then her. “Trying to kill me again?”

“You brought it on yourself last time. And no.” She unwraps it, revealing a pile of orange powder in the center. “I noticed you favoring your left side and got you some in the village.”

“What is it?”

“The herbalists call it Noble Earth, I’ve used it after fighting. For swelling.”

Sandor looks at the orange shit, then her, and he scowls before he grabs it. Smells it. Suspiciously.

“I’ll let you get back to your drinking,” Brienne says, brushing off the powder he spilled onto her trousers.

“Why?” He grunts, and she pauses her retreat at the question.

She tilts her head. “You have been Lady Arya’s protector. A copper’s worth of herbs is nothing.”

“She protects herself.”

“All the same.”

He snorts, funneling some into his wine. “I’m not paying you back.”

“I expect no less.”

Sandor drinks. It tastes like shit. He tells her as such, and she only shoots him an unimpressed look. He doesn’t know why she’s not leaving, but then she asks him a question and he wishes he had more wine.

“You’ve known Lady Arya since she was a young girl.”

“Just as annoying now as she was then.”

Brienne ignores the comment. “Her and Lord Gendry seem...companionable.”

He snorts, drinking more of this bullshit wine. Brienne’s gaze is firmly trained across from them, and he follows it. Lord Twat and Arya sit next to each other, talking quietly about something he does _not_ give a fuck about.

“Do you know anything of their history?” Brienne prods when he doesn’t further elaborate.

Fucking soldiers and their gossip. Sandor watches the mooning idiot, Brienne’s question bringing forth memories despite his better efforts. First time he saw them together, Arya’d been screaming for his blood about some stupid little butcher’s boy. She’d been ready to kill him herself if not for Lord Twat pinning her down like she was a mad dog. Shortly after, Beric and Thoros had been on that list--she didn’t ever say why, but he wasn’t an idiot. Then there was the Long Night, when the alarm had sounded and the twat'd stumbled out of a fucking grain storage with his trousers tied up wrong.

“No,” he says, drinking some more.

\--

He’s got first watch, and so he sees the idiot pacing outside her tent later that night, looking like he’s trying to decide on something. Sandor has an idea of what that something is.

“Go the fuck to bed!” He calls out.

Lord Twat stops, looking at him with pure panic, then annoyance. He looks at the tent, then back to Sandor. Eventually he sighs, runs a hand over his head, and goes back to his own. Good. Sandor doesn’t give a shit about who’s ringing whose bells, but two high borns fucking on a roadside where anyone can see seems trouble all around.

A few hours later, second watch rolls around. Arya comes to sit by him. He sends her a side glance with eyebrows raised.

“Can’t sleep,” she explains.

The scoff escapes him. “I bet you can’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.”

Arya’s lips press into a thin line as she watches the fire in front of them. They sit in silence, which is his preferred way to sit with anyone. Eventually, the fire dies down until the log in the center of it is white and chalky, bark curling in on itself.

“Sandor?”

It’s still strange to hear his name from her. But he guesses surviving through two unsurviveable battles has brought her there. “What?”

A long pause, and he waits for her to figure out what it is she wants to say.

“I don’t know how to do anything else,” she admits quietly.

“Guess that makes two of us.”

Arya looks up at him. “Do you regret it?”

“Living?” She nods. He shrugs. “He’s dead, that’s what matters.”

“Then what are you going to do next?”

“Not follow you around while you _moon,_ that’s for fucking sure.” He rolls his shoulders. “I don’t know. But high-born cunts are always gonna need someone dead.”

“So back to being part of a guard?”

“Killing’s killing. Doesn’t matter what color cape you’re wearing when you do it.”

Arya draws her knees up to her chest. She rests her chin on top of them. “Let me know when you come up with something.”

Sandor looks at her, then snorts. “You’ll get there before me.”

“Maybe.” Arya closes her eyes. “Maybe not.”

He frowns.

\--

The next two days go by, and he’s not telling Brienne that her dumb fucking powder is easing some of the aches. He’s been watching Arya and her favorite twat, because he knows other people are watching, too. Sandor’s of half a mind to tell her to find a fucking shrub to hide behind and get it over with. But other than Lord Twat pacing outside her tent, nothing seems to have come of it.

On their last night of camp before King’s Landing, that bumbling fuck of a Lord sits next to him while he’s sharpening his weapons. It’s then that Sandor knows he has no gods damned sense of self-preservation.

“The fuck you want?” Sandor asks, his whetstone making a nice scraping sound along his blade.

“Nothing,” Lord Twat says, across from him. After a moment, he takes out a piece of paper and starts scribbling on it with a nub of charcoal.

He doesn’t care. “The fuck’s that?”

“Sketching,” he says.

“Sketching,” he echoes dryly.

“Yes, sketching,” Lord Twat asserts. His brows scrunch together and Sandor uncharitably wonders if he’s trying to count to ten. Then he surprises him: “You know if Arya still favors her left hand?”

“You’d better be talking about fighting.”

“What else would I be-? _Yes, fighting._ ”

Sandor stares at the parchment again, understanding. “...she’d want something that could be used with both,” he finally grunts, not happy about helping.

Lord Twat nods, attention back on the paper. There’s the light scritch of the charcoal going over it. And Sandor remembers that fancy staff of hers, and now knows for sure where it came from. These fucking idiots.

“That’s your plan, then?”

He doesn’t look up. “What’s my plan?”

Sandor turns his attention back to his sword. “That axe you made wasn’t near as good as you thought it was.”

“Killed things for you, didn’t it?”

“I could kill with a fucking rock if I needed.”

“You didn’t answer me. Plan for what?”

Sandor’s brows draw together as he lightly presses his thumb against the blade, inspecting it. And there are some things this boy is never going to understand. He’s killed, but he’s not a killer. Not like them. But then again, Arya’s not like Sandor, either. Doesn’t have to be.

“Making a sword’s not going to change anything,” he settles on.

“It’s not a sword.”

“I don’t fucking care.” Sandor starts packing up his supplies, intent on just leaving. But something nags at him, makes him stay seated even though he finds the twat annoying and closer to useless than most.

He waits until the twat’s attention shifts from the paper. Then looks him dead in the eyes.

“I didn’t ride for twenty gods damned days on horseback for you to fuck it up.”

“Fuck what up?”

Seven bloody hells. “You want her to stay in your pretty castle? Give her a reason besides your cock to do it.”

His ears go bright red. “That’s not-!”

“Fair?” Sandor finishes with raised brows. “She’s a killer and that’s not going away. But it’s not the end of it. So fucking figure it out.”

He stands, sheathing his sword before walking away. Dumb cunts, the lot of them.

\--

The next day, his hip is hurting more than a whore’s and King’s Landing is on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> king's landing next ~(._.~) ~(._.)~ (~._.)~


	9. a bastard from flea bottom

He’d worked up some ideas about King’s Landing. Like maybe there’d be smoke, still hovering in the air in thick, poisonous clouds. Or dead bodies everywhere, resting against charred walls and collapsed buildings. He thought the air might smell, that maybe his eyes would water and burn.But it’s been almost eight months since the Great Burning, and what’s left is not what he imagined.

The last thing Gendry expected, was that he wouldn’t know where anything is. The city he grew up in isn’t in the same place--it’s like something lifted it up and moved it to the left. The streets he remembers simply aren’t there anymore, replaced by rows of houses that are either half-finished or shoddily built. The streets that are left are far wider than he remembers, horses able to move comfortably even through what used to be the denser neighborhoods. It takes him a minute to realize it’s because the buildings that used to crowd them simply aren’t there anymore. There’s also a series of carts lining the roads, one he doesn’t remember ever seeing before. There’s huge vats on the back of them, and long lines leading up.

“What are those?” He asks, trying and failing to avoid being overwhelmed. The streets are wide enough that they can ride, but he’s decided to walk his horse instead. Most of their party has.

“Water,” Arya answers. “The smoke and debris poisoned a lot of the reserves in the city. Or the pipes burst and haven’t been repaired.”

“So people are paying for water, then?” He can’t hide the anger that sneaks into his words.

She nods stiffly. “It might stay that way.”

“Pissheads,” he mutters under his breath, taking a closer look at the people in line, now. Most of them are children, carrying huge bins or barrels. “What about their homes?”

Arya’s words are flat, but he sees her hands grip tighter on the reins of her horse. “The Queen’s built communal buildings for them.”

“So poor houses.”

“Yes.”

His jaw clenches as he looks at the place that is no longer where he grew up. Several roads have just been barricaded or blocked off with shoddily built walls. His feet stop when he sees one in particular.

It doesn’t look any different than the rest of the streets, the entrance of it blocked off by boarded, wooden planks. But it _is_ different. It’s different to him. His feet move forward without him thinking about it, hand numbly leaving his horse’s reins.

“Gendry?” He hears Arya call behind him, but he’s stuck somewhere else. A place where he was younger, angrier. Surrounded by too many people and too much shit. A place where he’d hear drunken men singing off-key and steel singing.

Now it’s just...quiet.

When he gets closer to the barricade, he notices that it smells more like how he thought this neighborhood would smell-- dirty and like smoke. His fingers dig into the edges of a plank, and with a flex of his muscles, it starts to give. He pulls even harder, and the nails lodged into it give away completely.

As soon as he’s pried off the board, he wishes he hadn’t.

In front of him there’s just rubble. Collapsed stone stained black, metal bars and bricks scattered. It’s not cleared out, not lined with water carts or exhausted-looking children. It was just _left there_ like it didn’t even matter. Like it had never been a _place._ He keeps his eye above ground, away from the rubble of collapsed buildings, because he’s afraid he’ll see bones or something that looks too familiar. A warped anvil, maybe. Or half-melted tankards.

“Gendry,” he hears again, softer and closer this time.

It’s not until he feels her hand on his forearm that Gendry realizes he’s been near-shaking in rage. His hands have bunched into fists, his breathing coming in shallow. He feels his teeth grinding together, straining his jaw and neck. His throat feels tight and he can’t get any words out, so he just looks down at Arya and hopes she understands.

“What was it?” She whispers.

“Further down,” he starts, and he hears how thick his voice is, feels how close he is to shouting. “There’s an alehouse. And a shop.”

His pulse is loud in his ears. He barely remembers his mother, but he remembers going to that alehouse. Talking to the women that had worked with her before she died. Eating brown bowls and drinking watered down beer after working at Mott’s, keeping his head down because men liked to go into their cups, and once they were into cups, the first thing they’d want to do is pick a fight with the biggest one there. He’d been 10 the first time that’d happened--punched square in the jaw. One of the alehouse’s servers, Elyn, had stitched the cut on his forehead after he’d hit the table from it.

Mott’s had been close by. Gendry can’t even remember the old man’s face, but he tries to. And just as fast, he thinks about if he had been burned, melted down like one of their ores-

Without thinking, he turns away from Arya and violently rips away another plank. Then another. Another after that. His arms strain, but he won’t feel that until later. Gendry tears and he tears, until there’s nothing left of that wall. Only the destruction and the neat, tidy streets they’ve tried to hide it behind. He knows he’s gathering attention -- of his own men, of soldiers guarding the water carts.

One group of soldiers moves closer to him, their armor red and black. But when he glares, they must see something in him that’s frightening. He throws down the last piece of wood, and it slams at their feet with violence. He doesn’t give a shit -- not that they have swords, or he’s a Lord, or that the Queen is a very real threat to him and his holdings.

They can all fucking look at what they’ve done.

He storms passed them. In his anger, he doesn’t notice Brienne hopping down from her horse to go after him. Or see that she’s only stopped by a slight head shake from the Hound.

Gendry turns down into an alleyway, away from the main thoroughfare and his men. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to be anywhere near that fucking Red Keep. Arya walks with him, silent and unobtrusive as a shadow. Once he’s gone what feels like miles, he finally stops and sags against a wall. The stone and mortar of it both look fresh, and he closes his eyes as he tilts his head back.

“I can’t do this,” he finally says.

“Yes, you can,” Arya states. He hears her step next to him.

Gendry opens his eyes, turning his head down to look at her. “How could you stand it here for so long?”

“Because I had to,” she says quietly. And then, quieter still: “Because I was afraid she’d kill Jon.”

For the first time, it dawns on Gendry that Daenerys truly could’ve. And he doesn’t know what’s happened, between Winterfell and now, to make the woman who was ready to sacrifice her life for the North cause so much devastation. He honestly doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop himself when he sees her again. If what he’s feeling right now will get the better of him, and he’ll do something that will get him killed.

“I always thought I’d never want to see this place again,” he finally says. “Now I guess I won’t.”

Arya’s arm rests against his. He knows she’s fast and brave and skilled, but right now all he can think about is that she’s _small._ She’s small and she was alone and it wouldn’t have taken much for her to be lost to fallen stones and burning beams. As if sensing his thoughts, Arya moves so she’s standing in front of him. When her arms wrap around his waist, his come around her shoulders, and he bends down until his face is buried in the crook of her neck. He wants to hear her pulse, feel her chest rise and fall with breath under his palms.

“I’m right here,” she says quietly. “So are you.”

Muted by distance, he hears the keen of a dragon. If his hold on Arya gets tighter, she doesn’t mention it.

\--

He doesn’t know how long they stay there, but he waits until his heart slows down. Until it feels like he can breathe again. Then he walks out, and sees that in the time they’ve waited on him, his soldiers have drawn his banners. The black stag on the gold field flies in the wind, a slow and syrupy motion and he wants to tear them all down when he notices smallfolk and guards alike staring at them. At him.

“My Lord?” Brienne asks.

Gendry walks to his horse, steps into the stirrup and throws himself over the saddle. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” he manages. His voice sounds hollow, even to him. Arya mounts her horse beside him.

Brienne’s gaze is soft. “It is no trouble, my Lord.”

Over the ramshackle buildings, the Red Keep looms over them all. He’s never even been in there. Not even to the gates.

Gendry straightens. “Let’s go.”

Arya gives him a short nod, and rides her horse next to his. He keeps his eyes trained ahead, knowing he won’t be able to stomach how the smallfolk of King’s Landing look at him.

\--

The gates loom large and tall, and a single servant is there to meet them. He is dressed well, in long velvet robes, and he stares at his banners with just the slightest of raised brows. Gendry, Brienne, and Arya step off their horses, but only Gendry goes forward.

“My Lord Baratheon,” the servant says with a dip of his head. “Apologies for the reception, you have arrived earlier than we anticipated.”

In truth, he doesn’t know what happens next. “You’ll see to my men?”

“Of course,” the servant peers over his shoulder. “When can we expect the arrival of the rest?”

“This is it,” he says curtly.

“Of course,” he says again, stepping to the side. “We have rooms prepared for you and your companions. Once you have rested, I am sure the Lord Stark would appreciate an audience.”

Gendry turns around, meeting Arya’s eyes. She gives a short nod.

 _Lord Stark,_ he thinks. Gendry wonders what she’ll let him be after their marriage.

“C'mon, then.” He feels exhausted, as though all his anger had burned something out of him. He walks forward, Brienne and Arya following at his side. He hears the short intake of breath the servant has when he recognizes the Hound when he and Podrick pass him.

\--

His rooms are just as good, if not better, than the ones he has at Storm’s End. The bed is large and soft-looking, there’s a desk and some books and places to sit. Gendry didn’t bring much with him, and so the servants have made quick work at unpacking his things. He wonders what the others’ rooms are like, if Arya was treated just as well as he was. If they even knew it was Arya Stark that was riding with him. He found it hard to believe, but most things he couldn’t believe lately have come true.

Gendry takes off his travel-worn leathers and exchanges them for a linen shirt and doublet in his House colors. Then he cups water from the basin and splashes it over his head and on his face. He braces the wooden stand, weight leaning on his hands, and wonders if the Red Keep also pays for its water. If it’s more or less than what they’re making the smallfolk pay.

There’s a knock on his door, and he looks over his shoulder to see Arya standing there. Like him, she’s exchanged her riding leathers for lighter fabrics, her hair set back into the neater bun she’s been favoring.

“Are you going to see Jon?”

He shakes his hands free of water and nods. “Better him than Daenerys.”

Arya’s expression becomes serious. “You can’t talk like that in here, Gendry.”

He scowls. “Walls having ears and all that?”

She nods. “Come on,” she says. “I know where he’ll be.”

\--

As he and Arya walk the halls of the Red Keep, something strange happens. Some people, whether they be dressed in the fine clothes of nobles or the plain ones of servants, pause in their step. Others send them long looks. They’re all older than them, the youngest perhaps around the Hound’s age.

“What’s going on?” He mutters to Arya, stepping closer to her side.

Her brows are drawn. “I don’t know.”

Once they’re gone and out of hearing, the onlookers whisper. Two names are repeated over and over:

Robert.  
Lyanna.

\--

The guards to Jon’s room take one look at Arya and let them pass without question. They walk into a sitting room of some kind, then what looks like a study. There, he sees Jon leaning forward on a desk, attention focused on reading something. He does not look like the same Jon that Gendry met at Dragonstone. His mouth is downturned and there are starting to be more permanent lines from frowning on his brow. His beard is thicker than he’s seen it, but most importantly there’s a defeated air about him, like it’s settled into his bones.

“Jon,” Arya calls out, her face breaking into one of her rare, wide smiles.

Gendry steps to the side as Jon’s head snaps up. And he gives a smile in return that almost reaches his eyes. She rushes forward and her brother (cousin?) clutches onto her like a lifeline.

“Where were you?” He whispers, voice hoarse and forehead pressed against hers.

“I’m sorry,” Arya mutters. “I couldn’t tell anyone.”

“Not even me?”

“Not even you,” she confesses, voice sounding pained. Again, she says, “I’m sorry.”

Jon pulls back, and Gendry can see the hurt cross his face before he tries to smile again. “You’re here now,” he manages. And his voice pitches lower. “I didn’t think you were coming back.”

Arya shakes her head, and Gendry’s not sure how to interpret the gesture. Jon apparently does, because he pulls her into another hug. He wonders if he should leave, feeling like an intruder.

But then Jon seems to realize that Arya didn’t arrive to his rooms alone. “Gendry?” He asks, brows furrowed as his gaze goes from him, to Arya, and back to him.

Gendry doesn’t know if he bows or grovels or calls him Jon or Lord Stark or His Grace. He settles on what he hopes is a friendly nod. Because they’re in this together, now. Allied with Daenerys Targaryen.

Jon reluctantly steps away from Arya, and offers his arm. Gendry clasps it in friendship as he did when they first met. Two bastards, thrown into circumstances neither wanted.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Jon says quietly as he drops his arm. “It’s...good, for Dany to see allies right now.”

He thinks about his old neighborhood and doesn’t give a flying fuck about what’s good for Daenerys. But he swallows down his temper, as Davos has been slowly teaching him. “Couldn’t miss your wedding.” In more ways than one.

Jon nods, then frowns as he looks back to Arya. “...you arrived together?”

Gendry’s not sure how she wants him to answer, so he waits until she does.

“We did.” And Gendry doesn’t think he’s imagining the somewhat defiant look in her eyes, but Jon only continues to frown.

“You rode out to Storm’s End? That’s where you were?” At her nod, he continues, “Why?”

 _To let me know your future wife might want me dead,_ he thinks. _Just like her Hand and her city._

“Ser Davos suggested it. Thought it would help Gendry’s legitimacy if he were seen publicly escorted by someone from another Great House.” If Gendry didn’t know the truth of it, he would have never guessed she was lying. Just another thing for him to understand about her, after all their years apart.

The frown lessens, though Jon still looks confused. “Why couldn’t you tell me that’s where you were going, then?”

Arya rests a hand on his arm. “I’ll explain later.” At his stare, she adds. “Please, Jon.”

A moment passes, then Jon gives a reluctant sigh. He turns to him. “You must be hungry.”

Gendry thinks his stomach hasn’t stopped turning since they entered the city. But he says, “Food wouldn’t hurt.”

Jon gives something that’s almost a grin. “I’ll send for it.”

\--

It’s a relief that they eat in Jon’s rooms, rather than out in the Great Hall. But while Gendry forces himself to eat some simple stew in order to keep up appearances, he doesn’t think he fully hides his tensed shoulders or tightened jaw.

Under the table, out of Jon’s sight, Arya rests a hand on his knee. It grounds him, helps him grunt through a conversation on life at Storm’s End, listen politely as Arya and Jon talk about ravens from Sansa and Bran, how Sansa is expected to arrive in a few days’ time. He wants to be able to see this for what it is: a chance to talk to Jon, to spend time with Arya. But he can’t help his thoughts--the ones that have him hesitate on answers about his Bannermen and holdings, because he doesn’t know how much Jon talks with Daenerys. Doesn’t know how much she’ll ask him later, once she knows that he’s arrived with Arya Stark in his retinue.

Once supper ends, Gendry rests his hand on top of hers. He runs his thumb gently over her knuckles before he excuses himself.

“You can stay,” Arya offers as he stands from the table.

“I’m sure you and Jon have a lot to catch up on,” he says. He turns to Jon. “Is it my Lord?”

“I don’t care,” Jon says, sounding tired.

“‘G’night then, Jon.” Because he thinks it could help, maybe, for Jon to hear himself called by his name every once in a while. Arya’s taught him that.

“Goodnight, Gendry,” he replies.

Gendry sends Arya a soft smile, not particularly caring if Jon catches it. Because there’s not much worse he could do to him than his wife-to-be. Arya returns it, and he makes his leave.

\--

That night, he dreams of ash falling from the sky in slow, crescent motions and a woman with blonde hair that he knows to be his mother.


	10. appropriate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> achem
> 
> mind that rating's bump! lmk if you want a fade-to-black version of the chapter and i'll make it happen!
> 
>  **edit/update** fade-to-black version of this chapter [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19283389/chapters/45861841#workskin)

“Lord Baratheon of Storm’s End.”

He exhales, shaking his shoulders loose before he walks into the Great Hall. Gendry knows they’re gawking at him. He feels their stares on his body. They’re probably wondering what parts of him are Robert’s, what parts aren’t. He’s entertainment for them, bastards being little more than trained animals to high borns. And so when the whispers and the tittering and the scoffs start, it doesn’t take any imagination to figure out the cause of it--most of them were probably impressed he could keep his knuckles off the ground.

There’s only two consolations as Gendry walks into the welcome feast for the Lords attending the wedding. One, that Brienne is by his side as his sworn shield, and two, that he sees Arya sitting at the head table to the immediate right of Jon. He can’t look at the nobles without wanting to hit them, and he can’t look at the Queen in front of him, or he might do something he regrets at the end of his walk. So all his attention is on Arya. She looks nice. Her leathers have been replaced by a simple dress made of what appeared to be linen--it’s dark grey and there’s direwolves stitched in at the collar. Her hair’s been let down. She gives her little smile at him, the one she does when she thinks he’s feeling nervous or angry (he is). He wants to smile back, but he knows that’s not a good idea. Not when there’s so many people staring and wanting any excuse for him to go back to just being a bastard.

His booted feet reach the end of the hall. He’s got no choice but to look at them, now.

Jon sits to his Queen’s side, and he’s easier for Gendry to stomach. He’s dressed in a dark grey doublet made of leather, and without the armor or the fur he looks small. Jon, like Arya, gives him a wane smile. Gendry tries, and fails, to return the expression and does his best to ignore whatever Jon communicates with his after it.

He thinks of his village and his men, of Willis and Jocie and Brienne and Podrick and Davos, and it’s from there that he pulls enough self-control to meet the gaze of the Queen.

Daenerys is and is not the memory he has of her. She’s still unquestionably beautiful, her white hair done in a series of elaborate braids and her dress form-fitting in red and black. But he remembers her laughing with her eyes, her mouth in a small little smile. Softness in her expression when she looked at Jon.

That part’s gone, now. She still smiles, but it looks painful. Her eyes have slight, purple crescents under them. There’s palpable tension between her and Jon.

And on her brow is a crown.

It’s black, and he realizes after a beat that it’s made of dragonglass. He has no idea who forged it for her, as it’s an incredibly difficult material to work with. It forms a band to host three, silver dragons overtop it, braided together with their heads framing either side of Daenerys’ forehead. Their eyes have red chips in them--rubies, he thinks. It’s fine workmanship. Possibly the best he’s seen for this kind of thing. He used to make diadems and such for the noble ladies, part of Mott’s apprenticeship to get him comfortable with small pieces-

“Gendry,” she greets from her seat. Like they’re friends. Like she hasn’t just destroyed his former home and the people who lived in it. He doesn’t want her to call him Gendry instead of Baratheon. Because she doesn’t know him, will never know him. “Welcome back to King’s Landing.”

His hands are in fists and he can’t let them loose. And he must be doing a piss-poor job of concealing his anger, because Jon starts to frown. Dany’s brows furrow, and little creases in the corners of her mouth appear.

Gendry can’t die here. He refuses to let her kill him like she did so many other smallfolk. So he breathes out through his nose and bites out a “Your Grace.”

“Is something wrong?” She asks, and he has no _idea_ why she sounds genuinely confused.

Gendry shakes his head, gaze going back to that bloody crown. “Was only caught up looking at the workmanship.”

Her brow smooths and she gives that pained smile, but Gendry sees the way her fingers press into the armrests. “Of course,” she recovers smoothly. “We are happy to host the new Lord of Storm’s End.”

It takes everything in him to nod, but he does. Gendry knows he’s supposed to say something more-- thanks for hospitality or congratulations on the upcoming marriage. But he can’t. He physically can’t get past the bile the words form, like they’re going to poison him if they come out.

“Congratulations your Grace,” Brienne says for him. “The Stormlands are honored to witness your upcoming wedding.”

“Thank you, Ser Brienne.” Daenerys looks at him, her tone only a little cooler. “Gendry. Please enjoy the feast.”

And then it’s done. As soon as he can, Gendry makes for the table holding his men. It’s far too close to the Queen.

\--

Music’s playing, the nobles are dancing, and food is served hot. His men are well into their cups, but Gendry can’t make himself drink. Instead he scowls, wondering how long he has to be here before he can leave.

It doesn’t help that he can’t get up and talk to Arya. She’s the only one he wants to be here with, but when he first tries, she and Jon are in an intense conversation, their heads bowed down toward one another secretly. When he goes to try again, a different man beats him to it. He’s blond. Daenerys says something to him, and he sits down. Next to Arya. Gendry glares.

“How much longer do I have to be here?” He demands.

Brienne frowns. “There is to be an announcement.”

“So why aren’t they announcing?”

“She wants people in their cups,” Podrick says under his breath. Gendry knows he must be feeling anger just like him, but Podrick is better at keeping it hidden.

“It’s not like she can burn this place down again,” Gendry mutters, and Brienne sends him a harsh look.

“That is not appropriate here, Gendry-”

“Fuck appropriate.”

Down the table, a few nobles start laughing, sending him quick looks.

 _"What_?” He snaps, turning in his seat. His blood gets hot, temper rising. There’s a coil in his chest, wrapping around tighter and tighter. Because it’s been two hours and he’s tired of them acting like he’s too stupid to know who they’re talking about.

The nobles, two women and one man in brocade and gold threads, watch him with wide eyes. Then they stand up to leave, and Gendry can hear the intentionally too loud whispers of “barbaric” “uncultured” and another word he doesn’t know the meaning of. Which makes him even madder, because he’s sure they used it to make a fucking point.

“Control yourself,” Brienne whispers to him. He hates that she sounds gentle. Like he’s a child she’s trying to soothe out of a tantrum. _He’s_ not the one wrong in this place.

He wants to talk to Arya. She’s the only one that knows.

But now she’s talking to the blond man. Arya’s even smiling _,_ the heel of her hand holding her chin as she tilts her head to the side and he could swear she’s flirting or something close to it . Gendry feels himself go slack-jawed because that’s not her _._ It’s like she’s wearing a mask or playing a part. Because the second Daenerys turns away, the smile falls and Arya goes back to a carefully blank expression. The blond seems to notice, but Gendry watches as he pushes through his discomfort at the switch to keep talking.

Why is she being nice to him? Gendry frowns, something clearly going on that he doesn’t know about.

“Who’s that?” He asks.

Brienne follows his gaze, confusion evident in her tone. “I do not know.”

“He’s Dornish,” Podrick supplies. “Likely from a lower House. He entered with Quentyn Martell’s people.”

The blond extends Arya a hand, clearly asking her to dance, and Gendry snorts. No way in seven hells that’s happening. She starts to shake her head, but then Daenerys says something and Arya visibly swallows her words, puts on that mask again, and Gendry sees red when she gives a pained nod and accepts the Dornish man’s offer.

They begin a dance, but it’s obvious Arya doesn’t know the steps. Then he hears those tittering _fucks_ start making comments at it. It’s one thing if it’s at him--he’s low born and a bastard--but he hears someone call her “feral” and he’s done. He’s just fucking done.

“Where are you going?” Brienne asks when he violently shoves out his chair.

He doesn’t answer. Instead he storms over to the not-dancing pair, and without a word he grabs her hand.

Arya spins, going for a dagger that isn’t there. Because she’s wearing a dress instead of her usual clothes. It’s just one more thing she’s doing for this place, another act, another mask. He has no idea how her partner reacts, because he doesn’t care enough about him to look.

“C’mon,” he demands, words dark as he starts to pull her toward a side door.

“Gendry,” She hisses, but there’s no protest beyond his name, so he doesn’t stop.

Gendry keeps going until they’re out of the Hall, whispers following after them. Then he walks some more, and more still. Until he stops being angry. Until it looks like no one’s around. Then he pulls them into a barely noticeable corridor--it doesn’t even have torches lit. He drops her hand and pivots to face her.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

“Me?” She steps back from him, crossing her arms. “What are _you_ doing?”

“Getting you out of there!”

“Why?”

“Because you weren’t being yourself!” He flounders, hand running over his head. He starts to pace, the action somewhat undermined by the narrow corridor “I know you didn’t want to talk to some noble or smile or dance or anything like that. It...it’s not you.”

Arya goes very still. Gendry’s noticed that’s her new way to react to things she doesn’t want to hear.

“I’m doing what I have to,” she finally says.

He stills. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Daenerys needs to secure her allies,” she says, and her voice is all detached in that way he can’t stand. “At first I thought she wanted Sansa to marry Ned. He’s Lord of Starfall in Dorne.”

“Who?”

“The man I was with.”

“What’s that got to do with you?”

Arya’s mask breaks to give way to a frown. “Stupid,” is all she says, sounding tired and aggravated in equal measure.

“Go on, then. Explain it to the stupid low born.”

“It’s not _Sansa_ she wants him to marry.”

“Then who?”

Arya stares at him. Gendry stares back. And then it hits.

“Well, don’t fucking do it!” He shouts.

“I’m not!”

“And don’t dance with him if you don’t want to!”

“Daenerys insisted. What should I have done instead?”

“I don’t know! Fucking stabbed him or something!”

“I’m not going to stab one of Daenerys’ allies in the middle of the Great Hall-”

“So it’s all about whether _Daenerys_ is happy, that it?”

Arya’s expression darkens, genuine anger leaking into her words now. “You know what she can do.”

He, logically, knows it’s best to rein in his temper now. He doesn’t do it. “That’s why I know you shouldn’t do what she wants!”

“It’s not that easy. We need the nobles to-”

“Fuck the nobles!” He yells.

“I have to do this!” She yells back. “Just _listen_ , you stubborn-!”

“ _You shouldn’t have to be changing for them_!”

His chest is heaving up and down in anger. She’s glaring at him like she wants to draw a knife. And he’s mad because he hates this fucking castle, hates what it does to the people in it. And Gendry loves Arya too much to watch her pretend. That was never Arya. She opens her mouth to say something, and-

“Fuck it,” he swears, quickly stepping forward and crashing his mouth to hers.

The corridor is so narrow that the action is enough to press her back against the wall. Immediately, he feels her bite down on his lower lip so he parts hers in return, pushing his tongue past them. One of her hands grabs the fabric of his shirt, as the other slides down to work on the ties of his pants.

“You-” she lets out a little gasp as he moves from her mouth to her neck, slow kisses at odds with the way he’s hastily rucking her dress up over her hips. “Stupid-”

He knows. He really knows. He really is. Trying not to focus on the light, tugging movements of her fingers deftly undoing his pants, he kisses her again--hard, and yes, a little desperate. Gendry’s well on his way to being ready, but he doubts she’s wet. Just to be sure, he slides off her undergarments and tries _very hard_ to ignore the fact that she almost has enough room to put her hand down the front of his trousers. Experimentally, he runs a finger down her slit, and the little tugging movements she’s making on his pants stop as she has a quick intake of breath. It’s like he thought, and they don’t have time for this but he doesn’t care.  

“Lean back a little against the wall,” he says, breaking the kiss to do so.

“Why?”

“Just lean!”

She does so with an annoyed sigh, and Gendry gets down on one knee for an entirely different reason this time.

“What are you-?”

He’s a fucking idiot for not doing this the last time he was with her. His hands slide up the backs of her thighs, pulling them apart so he has access. As soon as he does, he has his tongue mimic the motion his finger just made-

“Fuck!”

Gendry tilts his head for a better angle, and this is a fast, impulsive thing so he doesn’t have time to do this completely right. He starts with just a few, slow strokes of his tongue against her--because he thinks this might be the first time someone’s done this for her, and he doesn’t want to be a fucking animal about it. Once he’s reasonably sure she’s comfortable with it-  
  
“Hurry up.”  
  
-he presses in, first with his tongue, and then with two of his fingers as he turns his mouth’s attention to her clit. He moves his tongue in slow circles around it as his fingers move in and out at a faster pace. It doesn’t take long for her to get wet after that, and he thinks about just staying there, finishing her off like this, but his cock is rock hard and they don’t have a lot of time until they’re expected back or someone comes looking for them.

“Want more?” He asks, voice strained.

“No, stand up.”

Gendry is very good about following orders where Arya Stark is concerned.

“I’ll do that longer next time,” he promises, not even realizing what he’s saying as he drops his pants down.

“Good,” she pants. It’s not the first time they’ve fucked standing up, and so she hooks her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck as he cups her ass. He’s about to ask if she’s ready, but then she says, “Go!” and that’s all he needs.

Gendry pushes into her with one, quick movement and he mutters “Fuck!” into her neck as her body adjusts around him. Every bit of him feels like it’s pulling down toward his cock and while he knows this is a quick fuck, he doesn’t want it to be _that_ quick so he pulls himself halfway out for a breath-

Arya’s heels dig against his lower back, impatiently trying to get him back and he’s losing his mind.

“For fuck’s sake, slow down-”

Arya pulls back enough for him to see her utter frustration. “No.”

He clenches his jaw and gives up pretending that he has any sort of control over this. The way she’s positioned means he goes in deep, and his breathing gets short, fast. He starts fucking in earnest after she angles her hips more, her thighs pressing tighter around him.

Gendry grips her ass, her fingers pressing hard into his back as he thrusts in and out. As his pace goes faster, she rests her head on his shoulder. A few minutes in, Arya brings her knees higher up, and he swears he buries himself in just before his fucking balls. Gendry doesn’t know the noise he makes at that, but apparently it’s enough to make Arya give a breathy laugh against the skin of his neck. He’d smile, if he wasn’t trying so hard _not to fucking die._

Her breath hitches. Hitches again. Then her knees press harder into his sides and he feels her thigh muscles start to tense. Gendry has about half a second to prepare before she comes. Her cunt tightening around him with her moan in his ear means he lasts roughly half a stroke more before he comes harder than he thinks he ever has in his life _._ His cock twitches for a few seconds more, and then he pulls out and slowly sets her on the ground.

They’re both breathing hard, trying to get their bearings. Arya, of course, gets her shit together far faster than him. She slides up her undergarments, straightens out her dress. When it becomes clear that Gendry has been struck completely stupid, she sighs and pulls up his pants for him. He tries to tie them, but her eyes are dark, her hair is a mess, and her face is flushed. He can’t stop looking at her.

About a half dozen emotions cross her face, and when she lightly kisses him, his whole body feels like it goes into shock. Arya stares at him, looking like she's trying to figure out something to say.

“I’ll go back first,” she settles on. He’s still trying to get his gods damned pants on, but she smooths her hair and is gone before he can even manage one knot.

Gendry just fucked Arya Stark in a hallway of the Red Keep.  
What the hell was that supposed to mean?


	11. interlude: jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuck at an airport so have another chapter :'D first time posting with a phone, so sorry if anything's weird!

**interlude: jon**

He frowns when Arya returns to the Great Hall, not sure where she’s been. He’s heard people whispering about her being dragged off, but he figured that for typical noble gossip. No one _dragged_ Arya anywhere. But when she comes back, he still makes sure to watch her carefully, searching for any signs of struggle or pain. She’s walking a bit stiffly, which makes him worry there was truth to the rumors of her involvement in some kind of fight.

“Where was she?” Dany asks him under her breath, not turning to look at him as she brings her goblet to her lips.

“Wherever she wants,” he says, tired.

“Wherever she wants,” Dany repeats, taking a sip of wine. “...with whoever she wants?”

“What do you mean?”

In answer, Dany tilts her head toward a side entrance, where Gendry walks in a few minutes after Arya. His cheeks are red, like he’s either too far into his cups or he’s been running. Her next question is blunt. “How do they know each other?”

Jon doesn’t understand what she’s getting at. “Who?”

“Arya and the Baratheon.”

“Gendry?” He considers telling her about Arya riding with him from Storm’s End, but she’d been hesitant in explaining _why_ she needed to go, and so he chooses to keep his sister's confidence for now. “I don’t think they do.”

Dany sends him a look he’s used to receiving-- a weak smile to mask disappointment. “He’s been staring at her all night.”

“They could be friends,” he offers, not even knowing if it’s true.

“That is not how a friend looks at a woman.” Dany taps her index finger against her goblet, the ring she always wears making muted clacks against the metal. "See to your sister, Jon."

His eyes scan the room, but Arya seems to have gotten lost in the crowd as she so often does. So he stands, walking from the table into the increasingly drunken festivity. On his way, he accidentally bumps into Gendry, whose eyes go wide.

“Gendry,” he greets, sending him a speculative look. “Did you drink too much?”

“I--yes. No. I meant no.”

He still looks flushed. “You're alright?”

Gendry clears his throat, and Jon watches him physically work through a response. “Good. Really good. Good enough.”

“Maybe you ought to sit down?”

“...probably for the best.” Then he hesitates, before slowly bringing a hand up. His heavy, rough palm claps Jon on the side of his arm. Once, twice. “Well...” Then he stops, like he’s waiting for Jon to fill in the rest.

Gendry doesn’t have the smell of wine on his breath, and so he can’t attribute this odd behavior to cups. Jon decides to leave it alone, not having enough energy to ask him about his present state further. “You seen Arya?”

“Who?” His voice sounds higher. Jon’s brows knit together--maybe he is drunk.

“Nevermind,” he mutters, gently pushing Gendry's hulking frame to the side so he can move passed. Dany’s words clearly had no weight--were Gendry watching Arya all night, he’d at least have an idea of where she was.

Jon ignores the nobles trying to get his ear, intent on finding her. He needs to know more, if she’s alright-

Then he catches it.

“-complete brute, just like his father,” a woman he recognizes as a regular at court from High Garden proclaims.

“And in front of the _Queen-_ ” her companion, another middle-aged woman, whispers back.

His steps slow. They haven’t noticed his presence yet, but if they’re talking about Dany, he wants to know why.

“Too bad we haven’t any Targaryen men around anymore,” the first woman titters. “Like they say, history _repeats._ ”

The second woman swats the first with the back of her hand. “Shameless!”

“What are you talking about,” he cuts in.

They both visibly recoil when they realize who he is.

“Your grace-”

“We were just-”

He says nothing, his stare level as he awaits an explanation.

“We were just...commenting, your Grace.” The first woman says carefully. “On the resemblance your sister bears to the late Lyanna Stark.”

"A beautiful young woman," the second adds.

It’s not the first time he’s heard such a thing. Their father often made note of it when they were younger. But it means something different, now that he knows.

“...you were talking about a brute,” he says slowly, recalling the phrase that made him stop in the first place.

The women look at each other. He watches, wanting to hear what they have to say if it involves Arya.

“Your Grace-”

“Jon.” He turns. Arya’s looking past him, a frown on her features. The women, sensing an opportunity, quickly curtsy and make their escape. “What were they talking about?”

Jon gives a slow shake of his head, as though physically clearing his thoughts. “I don’t know. Where were you?”

“Needed some air.”

He nods, understanding. “Are you hurt?”

“Why would I be hurt?”

“I heard there might have been a fight.”

There’s the barest furrowing of her brows. “Don’t know anything about that."

“Good.” Jon sighs, feeling tired. Then he catches a flash of blond hair across the hall, and gives a thin, but genuine, smile. “Lost interest in Ned already?”

Arya rolls her eyes, arms crossing over her stomach. “Not my type.”

“You have a type?”

“Probably not, no.” She grins. Despite everything going to hell around him, Jon grins back.

“I’ll let Dany know.”

“Will that make a difference?”

The grin starts to fade. “Arya, we’ve talked about this-”

She takes a step closer, lowering her voice. “You know neither of us will agree to anything she proposes, don’t you?”

Jon closes his eyes. This is not the first time Dany has attempted to make a match for either of his sisters. With Sansa due to arrive any moment, he knows it will only get worse. “And you know I’ve said you don’t have to marry. Dany understands that.”

Both her brows raise, unconvinced. “And you believe her?"

“I do.”

"I can't."

"Arya…" he leans down, one of his hands on her shoulders. "You have to try. _We_ have to try."

"And if we don't?"

"She's doing what she can," he manages.

Arya looks at him, her eyes sad. She turns toward the head table. “Come on. It seems your Queen has something to say."

Jon looks at her, and hopes she can forgive him for what's about to happen.

\--

“Much has changed in the last year,” Dany says clearly, standing while everyone else in the Hall sits, their attention rapt on her. She leans forward, bracing her weight on her fingertips as they press against the table. Her commanding presence and confidence reminds Jon of why he would go to war with her. It’s a less comforting thing, now. “And I’d like to change things further still.”

No one says anything, but he catches a few of the Lords exchanging glances. His eyes trail over the ones he knows. Quentyn Martell leans back in his seat, for all intents and purposes uninterested. But Jon knows better about the Martells at this point. Snakes may lay in the sun but they were quick to strike. Gendry and his people from the Stormlands are tense, and he notices the way Gendry makes fists on top of his thighs, furious and doing a terrible job at hiding it.

Dany must notice, too, because she stares directly at him as she continues. “As you know, my reign has not made use of a Small Council, aside from Torgo Nuhdo as my Master of War. It’s time to change that.” Her gaze moves from Gendry to the other Lords, pausing the exact amount of time for each one. “You are here as my allies and friends. As such, I offer you seats at my table so that we can work together rebuilding Westeros.”

She pauses a moment for her statement to sink in. “As a gesture of good will toward our allies, Yara Greyjoy of the Iron Islands will serve as my Master of Ships and liaison between our naval forces. For any other position, I seek to hear from _you,_ the people of Westeros.” She smiles. “I have proven myself ready to defeat our enemies. Now, I wish to listen. After my wedding, I wish for all Lord Paramounts of the Six Kingdoms to meet for a Council. There, we will determine our next steps.” Dany smiles, eyes bright. “Enjoy your welcome to King’s Landing. Let it be a time to cultivate friendships between us."

Silence settles for a moment. But then, there sounds a slow, strong clap. Jon’s gaze shifts to the source, and he makes note that Quentyn Martell is the first to show support. The applause carries, travels. Soon everyone is joining in.

Everyone but the Lord of Storm's End, who sits stone-faced. His strange behavior now sobered. Eventually, Jon sees Brienne of Tarth say something to him, and Gendry reluctantly adds his own hands to the cheering around them.

"Will you have a Hand?" Someone calls out.

Jon goes still.

"Yes," Dany says. She turns to him, and Jon has been dreading what happens now. He gets up slowly, pushing his chair in before standing behind it. "Everyone raise your cups to Jon Stark, the new Hand of the Queen!"

The reception this time is warmer, his men particularly vocal. But it's not their response that matters to him. He glances to his right.

Arya sits, cold and furious. Her lips thin as her nostrils flare. Every part of her emanating betrayal and accusation. He knows why. Understands her anger. One of those rumor-mongering noble women said something about history repeating, and Arya, along with Sansa, has seen this story play out before.

 _It's different now,_ he wills her to understand.

But she doesn't. Of course she doesn't. Arya only stares at him, her hurt evident. Without a word, she stands and storms out.

...even Jon notices when it's Gendry who goes after her.

\--

"This will become a problem if we don't address it quickly."

Jon sits in her rooms the morning after the feast, hands folded over his mouth as he thinks. Dany stands at the window, her hair down and her body only clad in a silk robe. It makes him think of _before,_ when all he wanted was to wake up with her like this.

But it's not like before. He thinks it will never be like that again.

"You don't even know what it is," he says, lifting a hand to run his thumb and forefinger over his eyes. "Might be nothing."

She looks away from the window long enough to send him a skeptical look, but then her attention returns to King's Landing below. "I know the court is talking."

"About what?"

"They're both unwed. Your cousin looks and acts like your mother. Gendry looks like his father. And a Targaryen sits on the throne." Her eyes move slowly across the skyline, and her voice drops to a whisper. "It isn't hard to imagine what comes next."

"Neither would want it."

Dany shakes her head, one of her arms crossing her stomach. "It's about who wants it for them." Her other arm crosses as she hugs herself. "One for the songs, don't you think? A wolf and a stag finally together."

"We're both allied to _you._ "

"But yet you both hate me." She finally turns away from the window, and it hurts him to see the tears in her eyes. "Don't you?"

He doesn't know how to answer. And his voice breaks, a little, when he says: "I didn't want it to be this way."

"I know. But here we are." She walks toward the quarters they've never shared. Once she reaches his side, she pauses. "Your other sister has arrived."

Jon exhales, and the door shuts behind her.


	12. a maybe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU to the incredible response to this fic!! it's super blowing my mind <3 still trying to catch up on comments, but know that i'm reading and cherishing every one of them /;3;/

"Everyone raise your cups to Jon Stark, the new Hand of the Queen!"

Gendry’s hands clap together once, twice. He’s about to make a comment to Brienne about leaving, when he sees Jon’s attention go to the right. Toward Arya. Curious, he follows Jon’s gaze with his own. His hands stop clapping.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Arya this upset. Not even at Harrenhal or with the Brotherhood. Her lips are pressed tightly together and her eyes are wide--to anyone else, she looks angry. But Gendry remembers how Arry used to hide when she wanted to cry behind shoving and swearing. Jon must realize it, too, because his expression is one of pure guilt. The siblings meet each other’s gazes, and then Arya is turning on her heel and making for a side door.

Gendry’s up before he can stop himself. He vaguely registers Brienne asking what’s wrong, but he can go fast when he wants to. Right now he very much wants to, and so he’s only a couple seconds behind Arya when she exits. The door she’s left through leads to a courtyard, all the trees and benches and flowers cast in blues from the full moon above them. He stills, watching as Arya stops when she reaches the middle of it. His next exhale comes out slower as she starts to pace before crouching down and folding her hands on the back of her head.

“Arya?” He calls out quietly. She doesn’t answer, which he supposes is better than her screaming at him to get away, so he gets closer. He goes to put a hand on her back, hesitates, but then rests his palm between her shoulders anyway. “Arry?”

Her breathing is coming in fast under his hand, and she’s mumbling something he can’t make out about deers and shadows and swords. Gendry crouches down with her, head tilted to try and see her face. “Hey,” he tries again.

When she doesn’t respond, he just rubs his hand in a slow circle against her back. Eventually, she seems to realize he’s there. “She made him her Hand,” she says.

“Looks like.”

“My father was Hand.”

Then it makes sense: Jon’s guilt, her running. He feels like an idiot for not connecting it all together on his own. Gendry’s never been the best talker, so he wraps his arms around her shoulders and pulls her to him, knowing for some reason that this is okay to do, now.

“I can’t lose him,” she says after a few moments, her arms hanging limply at her sides as Gendry hugs her. “I can’t lose Jon, too.”

Gendry kisses the crown of her head. “Let's make sure that doesn’t happen then, yeah?”

“How?”

And suddenly it’s like they’re not Gendry Baratheon and Arya Stark anymore. Instead they’re Waters and Arry, two kids trying to make it out when it felt like everything was working against them.

“I don’t know,” he answers, because Gendry’s not a liar. Never has been. “But we’ll figure it out.”

Arya’s hands tentatively grab onto his shirt, and then she’s gripping him like a lifeline. Her back rises with her shallow inhales. Gendry swallows tightly, closing his eyes as he rests his cheek on the top of her head.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, holding her against his chest. “I got you.”

\--

The next morning, he makes a direct line to Jon’s quarters as soon as he’s dressed. The guards posted outside of them step in front of the doors, blocking him.

“ _Move_ ,” Gendry orders, shoulders hunched forward like something about to charge. He’s about a half a second away from tearing out the bricks of this place the same way he did the wooden planks in Flea Bottom.

“Lord Stark is not here,” one of the guards explains.

“Then where the fuck is he?”

The guard goes stone faced. “Not here,” he repeats.

Gendry has half a mind to shove past them and see for himself, but he decides to pull back the impulse. If for no other reason than they had steel on them, and he didn’t. Gendry’s jaw clenches.

“Well, let him know I’m looking for him,” he settles on.

The guard nods. “Yes, Lord Baratheon.”

His lips twitch into a frown, but he turns. Arya hadn’t been in her rooms this morning either, and he wonders if the Starks are out somewhere talking. That’d be good, he thinks, but it doesn’t absolve the anger in him. Last night, listening to Daenerys’s pretty words about a council had only pissed him off. Jon, too, for that matter, because he should know better. He should have let Arya know.

Being here isn’t like being in Storm’s End: he can’t practice his letters, because if anyone found out he could barely read and write, it’d be trouble for him. He can’t listen to petitions or go to Willis’ or Alyn’s. Gendry’s useless, here. That’s what frustrates him the most. He wants to make sure Arya’s alright.

He’s making his way to Arya’s quarters, to see if she’s back yet from wherever she went, when a guard starts walking toward him. Gendry doesn’t think anything of it, because guards go places all the time, but then he stops right in front of him.

“Lord Baratheon,” the guard greets.

“What you want?”

“The Queen would like a word.”

 _The Queen can go fuck herself_ , he catches himself almost saying. Instead, he grunts: “Fine.”

\--

They meet in some gardens, like little trees or flowers or birds chirping are going to make him feel better about being there. Daenerys arrives wearing a long, black tunic embroidered with red and dark pants underneath it, her dragonglass crown shining on top her head. He rather thinks she looks ready for a fight. She gives him a small nod of greeting, before she continues her walk. Gendry expects she wants him to just follow her around, which he’s not going to do, so he crosses his arms over his chest and doesn’t move.

“What’d you want to talk about?”

Daenerys stops, turning to face him. “Walk with me?”

Because she actually asked him like a person, he does. He makes sure to keep in line with her.

“You were upset last night,” she observes.

“Pissed off,” he corrects, because he’s tired of this court and its games. It didn’t fit. He didn’t want to make it fit. And if she was going to kill him, he figures it should be for more than being unmannered. Especially if the rumors about Baratheon supporters were true.

Daenerys looks a little taken aback by the open admission, but surprises him when she gives a slight, amused smile. “Honesty.” She says the word like it’s something she hasn’t heard in a long time. Her eyes dart to his profile. “Why were you angry?”

Gendry’s jaw works because he doesn’t know where to start, and he doesn’t know what will get him burned and what won’t.

“It might have escaped her Grace’s attention,” he settles on, voice dark. “But this bastard is from Flea Bottom.”

Daenerys stills in recognition, and he wonders if she even knew the name of the neighborhood before she burned it down. “I see,” is all she says, the pair of them continuing to walk around the garden.

When he can't take anymore of silent walking among fucking rose bushes, he states, “You shouldn’t’ve made Jon your Hand.”

Daenerys turns to face him. “Why?” When it’s clear that he’s not going to answer, she shakes her head. “Honesty for honesty, then. I didn’t want to.”

His brows scrunch together. “Why not?”

“Because there are those who would rather see him on the throne.” A long, measuring stare. “Or you. It seemed foolish to put him in a position where he had access to more power.”

“Then why did you?”

“He asked,” she says softly, eyes looking upward. Above them, the sunlight makes the leaves in the trees look transparent, veins sticking out. “And concessions are made in marriage.” Her shoulders slump, just a little. “In love.” Daenerys brings her attention back to him, and he doesn’t like the look in her eyes. It’s like she knows something he doesn’t. “Have you given it any thought?”

“What?”

“Marriage.”

 _Going to make me marry Ned Dayne, too?_ “Not a lot of time for it.”

“It would be good to start.”

“And you’d like me to start somewhere in particular, that it?”

Her expression cools. “Since we are being honest with one another...yes, I have prospects in mind.”

“I’m not getting married to someone just because you tell me to.”  _And neither is Arya._

Her lips press together in a tight smile. “I assumed as much.”

"Then why bring it up?"

Daenerys stops next to a tree of white flowers. "I need you," she says flatly.

"What?"

"To hold the Stormlands." She faces away from him, attention focused on the flowers before her. "And my ancestral home."

"Dragonstone?"

"Yes. It was stolen from me by the Baratheons, and now it seems I need one to hold it." She gives that pained smile again, words somewhat bitter. "I believe that's irony."

“Why not just take it yourself?”

She looks over her shoulder. “Because my forces are trying to rebuild King’s Landing.” He must not be able to keep what he thinks of that off his face, because she frowns. “We _are_ rebuilding.”

“With what? Poor houses and charging for water?”

Her gaze is sharp. “Those are temporary conditions.”

“Probably doesn’t feel temporary to them.” He sets his shoulders. “Pretty sure their dead aren’t temporary, either.”

“I saved them from the Lannisters.”

“Like they give a fuck whose ass is in that chair. Dead’s dead, and no one’s feeling better because a dragon’s killing them instead of lions.” His teeth grind, before he sourly tacks on: “Your Grace.”

Daenerys’ expression goes cold. “The war is over.”

He meets her gaze, refusing to back down now that he’s started. “You sure?”

Suddenly, there’s the loud keen of a dragon. It’s close, and Gendry sees its shadow cross over all the gardens. Hears the leathery flap of its wings. He’s fucking terrified of that thing, and he almost laughs at how he’d thought it a gods-send only a year ago. But he stands his ground. He’s not going to be bullied.

“What are you implying?” She finally asks, voice quiet in a way he’s recognized is dangerous.

“Don’t worry. I don’t give a shit about any of this-” he gestures around them. “You get another battle, it’s not from me. But people will care when their water starts running out. When they’re stuffed up in boxes.” He scowls. “Lot of people out there, your Grace. Ones that’re already angry.”

Her throat works as she tries to choose her words carefully. He can tell she’s just as angry as he is. But she surprises him again when she swallows down whatever it is her temper is demanding of her. Her purple eyes flash when they meet his. “You’ll be at the Council.”

“Doesn’t sound like you’re asking.”

“I’m not.”

Gendry shakes his head. “‘Course you aren’t.”

“And...I’ll think on what you’ve said.” Her mouth tightens. “I ask you return the consideration.”

Gendry narrows his eyes. “About what?”

“Marriage.” She returns her focus to the flowers. “Preferably to Dorne or the Iron Islands. A major House from the Stormlands would also suffice. Someone who could hold Dragonstone under your banner.”

There’s only one person he’d marry. And now that she’s back, he knows it even more than he did before. When he doesn’t answer, Daenerys sighs.

“Love matches are a wonderful thing,” she says in a way that makes Gendry’s stomach twist up into little knots. “But they don’t hold a kingdom together.”

“Except for yours?”

Daenerys winces. “No.” Her next words are so quiet, he almost doesn’t catch it. “I feel duty is the death of love, where Jon’s concerned.” What she says next doesn’t help the anxiety building in his gut. “There is another option.”

“Generous of you.”

Her eyes narrow at the retort, but she continues. “I’ve considered the Stormlands being absorbed into the Crownlands.”

Gendry’s entire body seems to go cold. “How?”

“They share a border.”

“The nobles would never go for that,” he says, knowing it’s true.

“Not at first, no.” Her expression is flat. “But House Targaryen has a three-headed dragon for a reason.”

He has no idea what that means. “What?”

Daenerys shakes her head, as though banishing something distasteful from her mind. “I won’t force you to marry anyone against your wishes, Gendry. But I do want you to think about what’s best for the six kingdoms.”

 _Hang the six kingdoms,_ he thinks. But his thoughts land on what she said earlier about love matches. And he doesn’t like where they go. He’s stupid but he’s not an idiot. Gendry needs to go find Arya, talk to her and see what she says-

“I would like us to work together,” she states, interrupting his thoughts. “It would be good for Westeros to see Targaryen and Baratheon allied.”

“We’re allied already,” he says, not even trying to hide the bitterness in his tone.

“And if it were up to you?”

Gendry glares down at the ground. “We wouldn’t be.”

Daenerys nods, like that’s what she expected. They sit with silence, and she starts to run her hand over the flowers in front of her. Her fingertips trace the petals.

“...would it make a difference, if I told you I regretted King’s Landing?” She whispers, cradling one of those white flowers in the palm of her hand and looking sad, maybe.

His answer is blunt and immediate. “No.”

Daenerys closes her eyes.

It’s then that he decides he’s done talking.

“Your Grace,” he mutters, turning on his heel. As he leaves, he feels her stare on his back.

\--

It ends up being Arya who finds him.

He’s checking on his men in their quarters-- Arya wasn’t in hers when he got back, and he needed to do something, _anything_ to make himself feel useful. They were in good spirits, Ory even giving him some shit about his behavior the night before.

“You and milady seemed in a hurry,” he says, face too blank.

Gendry’s ears burn. “Had something important to talk about.”

“Nothing to do with that handsome blond fellow, then?”

“He wasn’t that handsome-”

The doors open, and Arya walks in. She doesn’t seem to give a shit that she’s in the men’s quarters, which is unsurprising, but when she grabs his arm to turn him to her, he’s taken a little off-guard by the ferocity in her expression.

“They said you talked with Daenerys.” Arya’s eyes search over his face and body, as if she’s expecting him to have a severed limb. Her body radiates tension, like she’s gearing up to fight someone.

“Yeah,” he says carefully. Then he clears his throat, turning to his men. “See you.”

“Lord Baratheon,” sounds off in discoordinated rounds, and Gendry brings his hand to the hold she has on his forearm and uses it to steer her out of the quarters. They’re outside the Red Keep proper, but still within its gates. They walk out into the crowded courtyard, merchants bickering and selling around them. The royal wedding’s in three days, and the Keep is acting like it.

On impulse, he brings his hands to hold the backs of her arms as he bends down to kiss her. Without hesitation, she kisses him back. It’s a slow thing that makes relief chip away at all the worry and anger eating up his chest. People are watching, but he doesn’t care anymore. It seems like she doesn’t either, because she parts her lips for him and her hands rest on his sides. The tension radiating off of her seems to abate after a few moments, too.

When he pulls back, all the anger in him gives way to fatigue. “Can we get out of here?” He asks.

Arya nods. “Please.”

\--

No one says anything when they leave the gates, and he imagines it’s because he’s a full Lord now who can go where he wants. Neither are wearing anything Lordly, however--just linen and trousers the both of them--and so once they’re far enough away from the Keep, it’s easy enough to walk among the smallfolk without gathering attention. Gendry leads them to the Market District, because he thinks that will be a busy enough place, and they could probably both use the noise. If Arya notices that he’s going through streets that purposefully avoid any that might head to Flea Bottom, she doesn’t comment. At first, the markets almost seem back to normal. But as Gendry watches them for longer, he sees that some of the people look up every once in a while, that almost none of the stalls have cloth canopies overhead like they used to. He buys two things of meat-on-a-stick that he hopes isn’t rat, and passes one to Arya.

They walk in silence for a bit, as though they were both too wound up and needed some time to unravel. He’s about halfway through his meat-on-a-stick (it _was_ rat) when Arya starts talking again.

“What happened?”

“With Daenerys?”

She nods. He sighs, running his free hand over his head.

“Probably ran my mouth too much,” he concedes, now that he’s had time away from it.

Her attention’s a sharp thing. “What does that mean?”

“She asked why I was pissed off. I told her.”

Arya closes her eyes. “It’s too late now,” she concedes, after a long pause that makes him feel like shit.

“Yeah,” Gendry agrees, tearing off another piece of meat with his teeth. “Too late now.”

They’re walking toward one of the docks, one Gendry knows isn’t as sketchy as the others. He has a love-hate relationship with them, knowing these harbors were why he had Waters as a surname. The sun’s starting to go down a little, as afternoon goes into evening, glinting off the little divots the waves make.

He’s not sure how to say the next part. But he tries. “I think she knows about…” He looks down at her. “‘Bout you and me.”

She looks up. “You and me?”

“That we’re…” Fucking in hallways, apparently. “Close.”

“You told her?”

“ _No._ Just sounded like she found out.” He shakes his head. “Fucking hells, where did all this get wrong?”

She doesn’t answer, and how she starts talking next reminds him of Winterfell. When she was asking about the wights. “How’d it come up?”

“She was talking about getting married.”

“To Jon?”

“No, me. My getting married. To someone.” He’s not sure why it feels like he’s rambling. “That wasn’t-” _Wasn’t you_. “-someone I know.”

“Who was she suggesting?”

“People from Dorne.” He glares at the ground, sullen. “Seems all of bloody Westeros is getting married to Dornes.”

“I’m not marrying Ned. And it’s Dornish, not Dornes.”

Gendry lets out a short scoff, tossing his skewer into the water.

Arya ignores it. “Anyone else?”

“Iron Islands. Stormlands.” He shakes his head. “Why does this matter?”

When she doesn’t answer, he turns his attention to her. She’s biting down on her lower lip, and he hates the quick thought of _maybe_ that runs across his mind.

“What else?”

“What else what?”

“Did she say?”

Now, he scowls. “That she’s thinking about adding the Stormlands to the Crownlands.”

Arya stops. “...what?”

“Yeah,” he snorts. “Stupid fucking idea.”

“No one would ever agree to that.”

“I know, told her.”

“Then what did she say after that?”

He shrugs. “Was too pissed off to remember.”

Arya nods, as though that checked out. She sits on a nearby wooden, shipping crate. Gendry sits next to her, the pair staring out at the ships as some begin to shore up.

“What about you?” He asks. “I was looking for you this morning.”

She tosses her skewer out at the water, too. “Sansa’s here.”

He nods, processing. “...you talk to Jon?”

“No.” There’s a hint of a scowl on her face. “There must be a lot of work, preparing royal weddings.”

“Wouldn’t know.”

They sit there awhile, until the sun starts to set. Eventually his arm goes around her waist, and her head rests against his bicep. Since getting to King’s Landing, he finally feels good about somewhere. Because here there’s just the ships, the gulls, and Arya. It feels right.

“Think anyone’s noticed we’re gone?”

Arya lets out a low hum. “They knew the second we passed the gates.”

“Looking forward to leaving this place.”

“Me too.”

Gendry pauses. He knows this is a nice fucking moment, but he wants to know the answer. “Where are you going after the wedding?”

Arya stiffens a little. When she doesn’t answer, he sighs.

“I’m not going to pretend I’m not in love with you,” he states. “Because you know I am.”

She doesn’t say anything, but also doesn’t move away from him.

“You said I was pack,” he continues, “And I think I get what that means.” And here he goes again, making an ass of himself. “So. You love me at all?”

“Yes.”

Gendry swallows. “Good. Okay, then.” He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “If we get out of all this, you could come to Storm’s End again. If you wanted. And you could leave. When you wanted.” He knows he’s barely getting his sentences strung together, but he needs to say this before he loses the nerve to do it. “I’m not asking you to be the Lady just. There.” He quickly adds on: “With me. There with me.” Gendry leans back, looking up at the sky that’s turning pink and orange. “You don’t have to marry me or anything. I just know I don’t want to get married to anyone else. Don’t hit me or run away for saying so.”

When she doesn’t hit him or run away, he chances looking back at her. Arya’s watching the ships, her expression soft. He tells himself if she says No this will be the last time he asks. And maybe it really will be. Because he’s not going to keep forcing something that doesn’t want to work-

“Maybe,” she says softly.

Gendry’s eyes go wide, and it’s like breath leaves his lungs. “Maybe,” he repeats, smile fighting its way to his features.

He could live on a maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wedding next :3


	13. forest lass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sob this chapter is like twice as long as usual and i spend way too much time talking about clothes im sorry
> 
>  **warnings** for explicit sexual content at the end of this chapter. lol this is Officially my smuttiest fanfic so. enjoy all that i guess. & please hit me up if you want a smut-free version!
> 
>  **edit/update** fade-to-black version [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19283389/chapters/45861892#workskin)

****The clothes he’s putting on are the finest he’s ever seen, and every tie or fasten makes him more anxious for future wine or ale or whatever else he might spill on it later. The trousers are made of dark brown leather, and the fitted tunic he’s wearing is muted gold with rows of small studs running down it. Around his waist, he’s got a leather belt that has little, metal stag heads.

“Where’d we even get this?” He asks, pulling on a dark brown cape. The inside is lined with soft fabric he doesn’t know the name of. Silk, maybe? His clumsy fingers do up the clasps on the shoulders that look like antlers interlocking.

Brienne stands to his side. When she’d shown up in a dark leather doublet with a golden-yellow skirt, he’d been more moved then he’d care to admit. Doubly so when Pod arrived in similar, Baratheon colors.

“Davos and I procured them for you,” she says, sounding a little sad, and looking at him in a way that makes him think she’s seeing someone else. “They were your uncle’s.”

His hands go numb and cold. “Stannis?”

“No.” Brienne smiles. “Renly.”

Gendry knows that Brienne used to serve under his uncle, because Podrick told him. “...I don’t really know all that much about Renly.”

“There are times you remind me of him.”

“That good or bad?”

“Good,” she states with certainty. “He was twice the man of either brother. And the kindest.”

 _Kind_ isn’t how Gendry would describe himself, if she’s making matches. But he figures he’s at least better than Stannis and Robert. Never tried to kill his blood or put a bastard in someone’s belly, anyway. “You liked him, then?”

“Yes.”

Gendry nods, feeling a little better about his clothes. He readjusts the cloak until it feels right around his shoulders.

“Perhaps…” Brienne seems uncomfortable _._ “Perhaps I could tell you more about him, some time.”

“Sure,” he says, rolling his shoulders and preparing to enter the Great Hall for the wedding. “If neither of us get murdered in the next few days, that is.”

“Barring that, my Lord.”

He tilts his head. He thinks that’s a joke, but he can never be sure with her.

“Let us see to this wedding.” She gives a small nod before she walks out of his quarters.

They don’t really have a choice, do they? Still, Gendry follows after her, Podrick stepping in to the side of him.

“It was a jape,” Podrick confirms as the door to his quarters closes behind them.

\--

The Great Hall is completely dark but for the lanterns. They’re little bursts of orange in the black, resting on the floor to create the boundaries of a pathway. Gendry stares at them, confused and uncertain as to what to do next. Walk, he imagines.

“Never been to an Old wedding, have you boy?”

Gendry turns to the side, and is surprised to see a Stark man. He’s got  white hair growing in tufts above his ears and covering his chin.

“No,” he confesses, “I haven’t.”

The man squints, looking him up and down. Gendry suddenly feels self-conscious about wearing a cape. “You a Lord?”

“I guess so.”

“You go up front.”

“Where’s the front?”

The old man points at the Great Hall’s open doors. The lanterns lead out beyond them, then disappear to the left. It’s like a big, glowing arrow telling him where to go and he’s a complete idiot.

“...that way?”

“That way.”

“Got it.” He sighs. “Thanks.”

Brienne might be grinning as she follows him out. Podrick is _definitely_ smirking.

“Aren’t you two my…” he doesn’t know what to call them, actually. “Learned folks?”

“Please follow the candles, my Lord.”

He does. He follows the bloody fucking candles.

\--

They lead them outside. The weather in King’s Landing never gets cold, and so Gendry has to imagine what this might look like in Winterfell. Pretty, he thinks, on the snow and all. He walks forward and knows that this is the Godswood--but it’s not like the one in the North. There, all the trees were white and the leaves red. Here, the trees...just look like trees. There’s one in the middle that’s bigger than the others, with vines dangling from its branches and a strange, solemn face carved into it. The lanterns end there, making a wide circle.

“That’s the heart tree,” Podrick explains.

“I know what a heart tree is.” Mostly. To make sure: “That’s where they actually...pray, yeah?”

“Yes.”

It’s all a lot simpler than he thought it’d be. A tree, some candles. It could be anyone’s wedding.

As they walk further into the wood, he takes in the spectators. Due to the size of the Godswood, the parties are all small--Lords, their families. As one of the Lord Paramounts without one, Brienne and Podrick stand in for that role. The first thing he sees is the light blue of the Arryns on someone who looks like Pod. Next to him are a handful of blond men and women dressed in red.

“Thought the Lannisters were done?” He asks Pod--he’s become something like an informant.

“A branch family. From Lannisport. The Queen has given Casterly Rock to them so long as they pay higher taxes for the next thirty years.The youngest daughter has been given to the Martells as a ward.”

“ _Thirty_ -?”

His attention is diverted when he sees the next House in the procession--a man with red hair and fish on his cloak. He looks as confused as Gendry feels.

“Lord Edmure Tully,” Podrick explains. A beat, then: “Arya’s uncle.”

The one in charge of the Riverlands. He’s accompanied by a demure woman who he guesses is his wife. She’s holding a squirming, red-headed toddler in her arms. Gendry spends a little longer studying Edmure Tully’s face--he doesn’t look anything like his niece. Arya, anyway. He might look a little like Sansa. When Edmure catches him staring, all he does is stare back with scrunched-up eyebrows and a slightly parted mouth. Like a fish, he supposes.

“He’s…” Podrick hesitates. “Not well known for...much.”

“Got it,” Gendry mutters. There aren’t any Tyrells left, but he sees their banners up. “What’s with the roses?”

“The Tyrells were allies of the Targaryens,” Podrick says after a moment. “The Queen honors them.”

Gendry’s not sure what to make of that. Beside them is the red sun and spear of Dorne. Prince Quentyn is lounging against one of the trees, inspecting his nails. After them is the golden kraken on a black field. A woman in a metal breastplate and leather duster stands in front of a few armored men who look nothing like her. Yara, he assumes. Like Gendry, she doesn’t have any family to stand with her. She notices him, and her brows raise up-- as if to say, _Well_?

He dips his head in what he hopes is a nice enough nod. Those closest to where he guesses Daenerys will stand are a few of the Unsullied and Dothraki. He hadn’t had the time to get to know most of them, but they all look as serious as ever. Grey Worm’s not with them. Wonder why.

Finally, he finds where House Baratheon is meant to stand--across from the Greyjoys. And after the Starks.

Sansa is the first to catch his attention--she’s tall. Has bright red hair. Kind of like a living signal fire. Sansa is...stoic. Her dress is made out of light fabrics like the rest of them, in rich blues and light greys. Wolves are stitched up into the hems and there’s some kind of pattern that makes her arms seem like they have scales. She’s got the cinched neckline he remembers being on all their shirts in the North. Oh her head, she’s wearing something that looks like a modified diadem, which Gendry thinks is a truly terrible idea.

Behind her is the Hound, of all people. Standing where a sworn sword should go. He glances at Gendry once, sneers, and then doesn’t acknowledge he exists.

He pays the Hound and Sansa a collective half second of attention before his eyes are searching for Arya. He doesn’t see her-

Something taps his shoulder. He turns his head. _Arya’s_ tapped his shoulder. As he looks at her, his mouth feels a little dry.

“Good,” he splurts out, then wants to kick himself. “You,” he clarifies. And that’s probably the worst start to a compliment he’s ever attempted.

One of her eyebrows quirks up in the way that gets him into trouble. “Me.”

“You’re in a dress again.”

“Yes.”

“That’s nice. Not that wearing pants is bad.” He winces. “I wear them all the time.” That was worse. That was a worse thing to say.

But Arya smiles. Not a smirk, just an actual smile. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” How does she make him so _stupid_ still?

He doesn’t know that in her sleeveless, light grey dress with her hair down, Arya is the image of her aunt more than ever. He doesn’t know that the dazed expression on his face is the same one Robert used to wear around her. He doesn’t notice the sharp looks from the Lannisters, or the slight frown on one of Robin Arryn’s men. Doesn’t realize that Arya is standing closer to him than her sister. He’s only got eyes for Arya, and so all this just becomes background.

His attention only breaks when some whispers start. When Arya looks over his shoulder with a soft expression. Curious, he turns to follow it.

Jon walks the fire-lit path to the heart tree. He’s wearing a fitted, soft-looking tunic and pants that are, Gendry notices with some interest, the same shade as Arya’s dress. Around his shoulders is a white and grey cloak, fastened with the heads of direwolves. The same heads are patterned into the crown he’s wearing-- made of plain old iron, if Gendry had to guess.

Gendry’s not sure what he expected the future King of the Six Kingdoms to look like on his wedding day--maybe like he was going to the noose--but Jon just seems calm. He even gives Gendry a short nod as he passes him, and a smile for Arya. Then another nod to Sansa, who does not return it. Instead she gives him a cool stare. Someone else is not happy about the marriage, it seems.

Walking behind him, Gendry recognizes Sam Tarly. He’s wearing a dark grey robe of some kind. His smiles to them come easier.

Jon stops when he’s under the heart tree, turning to face the crowd. One of his hands holds the wrist of the other in front of him. Sam steps to the left.

Then it all gets quiet. The lanterns flicker, and he sees the Queen approaching.

Daenerys has her arm hooked through Grey Worm’s, the pair walking forward together. He’s as sour-faced and serious as ever, but he’s not in his armor for once. Instead it’s black trousers with a doublet that looks soft, the three-headed, silver pin still on the left side of his chest. Daenerys keeps her gaze straight ahead, right on Jon, and her attention doesn’t leave him. Doesn’t drift to anyone in the crowd. He looks at her with the same focus.

Her dress is white with a red lining underneath it, the scarlet peeking out in the insides of her long sleeves that trail over the ground, the equally long train of her dress, and around the hems. On her torso, the cloth is patterned like white dragon scales. But what’s most noticeable is the dark red, three-headed dragon that covers her side. It glints in the lantern light, and Gendry realizes it’s made of rubies stitched into the fabric.

Around her shoulders is a black and red cloak.

The gathered Lords, Unsullied, Dothraki, and Salt Queen are silent as she and Grey Worm make their way to the heart tree. As soon as she stops, there’s the unmistakable sound of leathery wings, the lanterns’ flames flickering from the air they move. Gendry doesn’t look up, but several of the other attendees do. It seems the last of Daenerys’ children is in attendance.

Sam clears his throat, turning to face Grey Worm. “Who comes before the Old Gods this night?”

Grey Worm answers tightly. “Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Queen of Mereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Queen of the Six Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.” Gendry has no idea how anyone remembers all that. “She comes to the Old Gods for her future husband and King.” Grey Worm looks from Sam to Jon, expression hard. “Who joins the marriage?”

“I am Jon Stark of Winterfell. I join the marriage.” He faces Daenerys for the first time. And while he does not smile, he doesn’t look angry or upset. “Who witnesses the marriage?”

“Samwell of House Tarly and the Night’s Watch.” Sam clears his throat. “Formerly, the Night’s Watch.”

“Torgo Nudho, Master of War.”

“Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen, do you take this man?” Sam asks her, trying to smile.

“I do.”

“Jon Stark of Winterfell, do you take this woman?”

“I do.”

A moment passes. Then Jon extends his hand. Daenerys takes it, and the pair face the heart tree, kneeling before it. Gendry stares, confused. He notices that he’s not alone, several of the younger people in attendance do not understand, either.

“They’re praying,” Arya says quietly. “To the Old Gods, so they witness the marriage.”

Gendry swallows, nervous for some reason. “...Does it count, if one of them don’t believe in it?”

Arya considers the question, then nods. “I think it counts.” She sends him a wane grin, and Gendry realizes that she’s sad. He doesn’t have to guess why. “We’re not supposed to talk, now.”

“Right. Sorry.” Gendry watches, as Jon and Daenerys bow their heads in front of this strange tree, hands clasped between them. He pities Jon, who doesn’t seem to want pity. He wants to grab Arya’s hand, but knows better than to do it in front of every Lord in the six fucking kingdoms-

Her fingers slide between his, her arm brushes against his arm. And it’s ridiculous, but he thinks he understands it when people say hearts can skip a beat.

Jon and Daenerys rise. The next part he understands better, as Jon slowly undoes the clasps of Daenerys’ cloak. He carefully folds it as she watches with tears in her eyes and her fists clenched, slinging it over his arm. Then he undoes his own, and drapes it over her shoulders.

And like that, Westeros now has a King.

\--

People will eventually call this night the White Wedding. Gendry figures it’s because white’s the color for surrender.

\--

They start the feast before the King and Queen arrive. Above the hall, on the balcony, Gendry watches as a man hits a mallet against a large drum. Then another man joins in. A fiddler. Soon, music is in full swing and servants begin passing around cups. Unlike last time, Arya’s not seated at the head table. So he’s not even going to pretend to be interested in talking to anyone else. He sits next to her, Podrick on his other side and the Hound on hers. Across from them, Sansa and Brienne. It seems obvious, somehow, that Baratheon and Stark would be joining Houses for these festivities. Brienne still serves Sansa in a way, and Gendry hasn’t got anyone else. Not here.

The Hound mutters something to Arya, and she stands. Gendry looks at her in confusion.

“I’m going to talk to Jon,” she explains.

“Is something wrong?” Sansa asks with a shrewd gaze.

“No.” She sighs. “No, I just wanted to see him, before everything starts.”

“Better hurry,” the Hound says. He tilts his mug back, taking a long drink from the tankard. “He’s going to be elbow deep in nobles’ shit soon. If he’s not deep in the Queen, already.”

Arya scowls, leaving without another word. The Hound rolls his eyes, standing and making to leave as well.

“Where are you going?” Brienne asks with a disapproving look.

“To take a piss,” he answers with acid. “Want to come hold my hand for it?”

Brienne turns away with a disgusted expression, and the Hound snorts before he exits. Gendry has a suspicion he’s not coming back, and for once he envies the Hound.

Gendry’s content to just drink silently until Arya returns, but her sister breaks the quiet.

“How are you liking court, Lord Baratheon?” Sansa asks him over the rim of a wine glass. It’s the first time they’ve really had a moment to talk since the Stark bannermen arrived.

“Hate it,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders. He grabs a pitcher in the center of the table and pours more ale for himself. He knows the servants are supposed to do it, but fuck that.

“It’s not for everyone.” She takes a sip. “For good reason.”

He takes a large drink, wiping the excess with the back of his hand. Around the Hall, he feels the stares of nobles again, hears them sniggering. Gendry’s stopped giving a fuck. He hates court, and them by extension. Once he’s done with this stupid council, he has hope to never see any of them again. In a strange way, his disgust for this place has him thinking of Storm’s End as home for the first time. Gendry makes a note to send Davos a raven the next day. It’s a good idea to check in after a noble wedding.

“Guess I’m part of everyone.” He frowns at her. “How do _you_ like court?”

Sansa smiles, polite and rehearsed. “As well as any other Lord.”

Gendry cocks his head. “You’re the Lord now?”

“Yes. Jon’s the King. Someone needs to hold the North for him.” Sansa takes another drink. “And his Queen.”

“The North could not have a better Warden,” Brienne says in earnest.

“Thank you,” Sansa replies. Gendry notices that her eyes travel across the room. He wonders who she’s looking for. Then he wants to swear when he finds out. “What do you think of Ned Dayne?” She asks the table.

“Not much,” Gendry mutters.

Podrick clears his throat. “We haven’t had the opportunity to meet him.”

Sansa stares at Gendry. He gets the feeling she’d be able to write down everything he’s said tonight. “I’ll have to introduce myself later, then.” She smiles at him, still polite. “Brienne tells me you’re doing well in Storm’s End?”

“Don’t mind it." He takes another drink. He looks at Brienne. “It helps to have you there,” he says sincerely. “You too, Pod.”

Podrick smiles quietly. Brienne does the same.

“Thank you, my Lord.” He’s rarely seen Brienne get into cups, and tonight’s no exception. She passes her glass to him, and he takes it.

“I’m happy to hear that,” Sansa says. “When we’re not surrounded by eavesdroppers and gossips, we should talk more about the Stormlands.”

“Sure.”

Then the music stops.

Several of the guards stationed around the hall begin moving, hands on their swords. Gendry tenses, ready to get up if he needs to.

The men go toward the door, toward the heavy beam across it-  
-and they open it.

Sam steps through them.

“Your King and Queen!” He announces.

Gendry notices that he’s been gripping his fork tight, like he might a dagger. He’s not alone: Sansa’s face has gone pale, Brienne had moved to sit in front of her.

The guards raise their swords up too high to kill anyone, forming a bridge for the royal couple to walk under. Daenerys and Jon enter, arm in arm. Gendry wouldn’t say either look happy. But she doesn’t seem like she’s going to kill him. And he doesn’t seem like he wants to die. As they pass, people stand up to bow or curtsy-- some more gracefully than others after the drinks have been served.

Gendry takes his time standing up. His bow toward them is clumsy because he can’t help it, but shallow because he intends it.

Daenerys gives a nod to their table, acknowledging the Lord of the Stormlands and the Lady of the North. He can’t read her expression, but she moves forward without a look back. When they sit at the head table together, people cheer and Gendry sighs before pouring himself more ale, adrenaline leaving his body.

The music starts again.

\--

He’s stopped drinking by the time Arya returns to the feast. She sits next to him, her shoulders a little slumped. They’re by themselves, Podrick having multiple dance offers and Brienne escorting Sansa as she talks with other nobles. And so Gendry risks resting his hand on the top of her thigh under the table.

“You alright?” Because she was gone for a long time. Maybe an hour after Jon arrived in the Hall. He was about to get up and look for her, himself--hoping it wouldn’t be as disastrous as last time.

“...I might be,” she says, the statement resigned but also sounding true enough. “Jon should be happy.”

He senses something is not being said. “You think marrying the Queen is going to do that?”

“In a way.”

“What’s that mean?”

Arya shakes her head. “He wants to rebuild King’s Landing. She’ll let him.” Arya pours herself her first cup for the night. “Maybe that’s enough.” Something sad's in her next words. "Maybe he's tired of killing."

Gendry glances at the head table, where Daenerys and Jon sit. They’re talking to each other now, quiet murmurs no one will hear.

Arya’s next words have an edge to them. “Or maybe it’s not. But I’ve spoken to the Queen about what happens if she hurts him.”

Gendry stares at her sharply. “You thought to threaten the Queen?”

“I think to threaten anybody when it’s about Jon.”

The laugh escapes him. It’s a short bark of one--more from disbelief than happiness. “You’re going to get yourself killed, Arya.”

“No I’m not.” She takes another drink, eyes trailing to the head table. “Not by her.”

When another song starts up, the King and Queen join the other dancers. Jon’s movements are stiff and clearly rehearsed. Across the Hall, Gendry notices people looking at them again. One of them’s Ned Dayne--who he still hasn’t spoken to, and hopes he never will. Gendry watches the people right back, with their red cheeks and their ugly laughter and their leers at the serving women. He barely stops himself from getting up and decking the lot of them.

“Gendry?”

He realizes he’s been gripping her leg a little too tight. Embarrassed, he drops his hand into his own lap. “Yeah?”

“Want to get some air?” She asks softly as another song starts to end.

“Sure,” he says.

\--  
  
They end up walking the way of the lanterns, if for no other reason than it’s late and they’re the only lights outside. The dark doesn’t seem to bother Arya, but Gendry’s tripped over at least four different things by the time they’re out of the entrance to the Hall. The anger in him abates now that he’s not surrounded by noise and high borns. That Arya’s with him. They’re not alone, soldiers and servants are having their own celebrations outside the Keep, but no one gives them a second glance. The further they walk, the less people there are. By the time they get to the edge of the woods, they’re completely alone.

“It’s over,” he starts, because he feels the need to talk even if Arya doesn’t.

Arya closes her eyes. He watches, amazed, as she still manages to step over a fallen log he for certain would’ve tripped over. “For now.”

“And you’re okay?”

“Stop asking.”

“I will once I get an actual answer.”

Arya frowns at him. “No, I’m not. Jon’s going to be the Hand of the Queen. We know what happened to the last one. And the Hand before that.” She averts her eyes. “And the one before that.”

Gendry stares at the ground as they walk. He doesn’t have an answer for her, or a way to make any of this alright. It eats at him, because nobles shouldn’t have feasts like this when half the people in Flea Bottom don’t have good water. Arya shouldn’t have to worry about Jon during his wedding.

“It’s fucked,” is all he can say.

Arya nods.

They walk for a bit more, straying from the path of lanterns. Gendry has no fucking idea how he’s going to get out of the forest, so he’s hoping Arya can do it for them. By how easily she navigates the place, he assumes they’ll be alright.

“You never asked me where I was,” she says, breaking their silence.

“When?”

“After the Brotherhood.”

His jaw clenches at the memory. At being _sold._ At being…

  
Then it goes slack when he remembers those scars that wrapped around her body. Too many of them. Too deep.

“Do you want to tell me?” He hazards.

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“Okay, then. Let’s try and see what happens.” Gendry suspects this should probably be done sitting down. So he does as soon as he finds a flat enough area, laying out his fancy stupid cape for them to sit on. “Where did you go after the Brotherhood?”

Arya follows to the ground, facing him. “Braavos.”

“How come?”

“To go to the House of Black and White. I didn’t know what that meant at the time. But I had the coin, and that’s where it took me.”

‘The coin’ nags at him. Gendry wracks his memory, and eventually he understands. “...that man at Harrenhal? With the hair?”

Arya nods.

Even the name of the place is enough to bring back visceral memories--the sound of small claws scratching against metal. The smell of mud and shit as they tried to sleep in it. Her lying next to him, curled up into a little ball, and him feeling responsible for all of them. And he remembers the man and his three names. Remembers giving her shit about the ones she picked.

“You became like him, then? One of those...?” He doesn’t know what they’re called, so he just waves a hand over his face.

“Almost.”

He doesn’t know what to say, other than he thinks he knows why she went there. Why she left to find the man who could kill three people just because a girl pretending to be a cupbearer asked him to. He’s heard her list. “Did it work? For what you wanted to do?”

Arya tucks her knees into her chest. “Almost.”

“Then...those scars?”

“From when I tried to leave. The Waif did it.”

“What's the Waif?”

“Dead.”

Once again, he’s out of words. So he sits there until he can think of something. It ends up just being the truth. “We’ve all done what we’ve had to do, I guess.”

Arya’s eyes flicker to him. They’re so light they almost seem to reflect in the dark. “What have you done?”

His mouth tastes bitter. “I needed to get better. At smithing, at making weapons.” Gendry’s angry at himself, maybe a little ashamed. “So I came back to Flea Bottom, trying to find Mott. In King’s Landing…” Gendry exhales. “It was the Lannisters who needed more weapons than anyone else.”

Arya’s anger used to be loud--sometimes it is. But it can also be cold and still, now. It’s the latter, at his words. A minute or so passes where he wonders if Arya’s just going to leave him in the woods to rot. He stares down at his fingers as they absently pick at grass.

“That was shitty of you,” she finally says, blunt and to the point as always.

“It was.”

“Is that why you came to Winterfell?”

“I think so. Davos found me.” He shakes his head. “And I needed to leave.” _And now all of it’s gone anyways. Flea Bottom, the Lannisters. Mott. All of it._

“...I’m glad you did.”

Gendry looks up. “Yeah? Even with…?”

Her voice is quiet. “I’ve done shitty things, too.”

Gendry thinks about the daggers. How she said she knew death and he believed it. That she killed the fucking Night King. And he wants to ask, to know more about who that Arya was. How she fit into who Arya was now. But he doesn’t think he should, yet.

They sit in silence, the night just as quiet around them. After a while, Arya sits beside him, her cheek resting against him in the way she’s started to do. His arm goes around her waist, hand resting palm-up on top of her thigh. Through the trees, if he squints, he can still make out the organe flickers of light. They’re about as big as lightning bugs.

Neither of them move for so long that he’s about to doze off when he hears her quietly call his name.

“Gendry?”

“Hm?”

There’s a shift in weight against him, and he blinks himself fully away as Arya moves. She sits on her knees, and he turns to face her.

Without any words, her index and middle finger rest under his chin to tilt it up. Then she kisses him. His body unwinds, his arms coming around her to pull Arya into his lap. She straddles him, and Gendry’s palms rest against her back, fingers flexing. Her lips part, and the kiss stays just as slow as it deepens. It’s the first time they’ve been like this where he hasn’t felt hurried or desperate. Instead he just feels calm.

But he probably has to ruin it, now. Gendry reluctantly leans away, resting his forehead against hers. “It’s late. We should get back to Jon’s wedding.”

“I don’t want to be there.” When he doesn’t say anything, Arya’s fingers, light and quick as they always are, start on the fastens of his belt, then his vest.

He bites down on the inside of his cheek. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

Gendry doesn’t need any more convincing than that. He kisses her again as one of the hands he has on her back goes up to the tie of her dress. He pauses for a second, fingers toying with the knot behind her neck. “...then we should probably try somewhere with a door.”

“No thanks.” At her words, there’s a jolt to his cock he doesn’t fully understand. Then she bites lightly on the lobe of his ear and _that_ he understands just fine. His heart’s beating slowly in his chest. Steady.

He goes to undo her dress but she grabs his forearm. He pauses, confused, but then realizes it’s just so she can get his vest and shirt off him. Gendry helps with that, elbows getting caught for just a second before he tosses the clothes aside. Arya undos her own dress, and the top of it pools in her lap. Gods, he loves Arya’s tits. They’re the best tits he’s ever seen.

He brings his left hand to cup one, still amazed he gets to touch them. Gendry’s always been aware that his hands are rough, darkened a little by the soot he’ll never be able to get fully out of his skin. Arya seems to like it, though, because when one of his thumbs grazes over her nipple she lets out a little hum. He traces over it until it goes from soft to hard, and yes, there’s definitely more blood in his cock than in his brain, again.

“You should take off the rest of your dress,” he manages, voice tight as his free hand goes to her other tit. She gives a little sigh at his attention.

“If you take off your pants.”

Gendry doesn’t need to be told twice. He kicks off his boots, undoes some laces, and kicks off the pants after them. While Arya finishes taking off her own clothes, he can just make out some of the darker scars she has. Not really thinking about it, he traces over them with his fingers. As soon as Arya figures out what he’s doing, she goes still and he thinks he must’ve fucked something up. But she only grabs the hand tracing them and holds it, eyes flickering up to his. The corner of Gendry’s lips quirk up in a sad sort of smile, and he kisses her again, the thumb of his free hand stroking down the side of her face. He wishes she didn’t have them, but they’re part of her, and because of that they’re beautiful to him.

Arya slowly pushes against his chest with the hand not holding his, leading them to the ground. He sits, and she follows, settling in his lap.

He leans back slightly, hand bracing their weight. Arya lifts herself onto her knees, straddling him as she puts her hand on his shoulder for balance. He doesn’t get much of a warning other than that, before she sinks down onto him. Gendry’s exhale comes out ragged.

Arya experimentally rolls her hips. His hand fists into the grass. Gendry’s never done it this way before--sitting up--and it’s a little uncomfortable, straining his arm and stomach muscles. But then she rolls her hips again, and _fuck_ does he go into her deep. She drops his hand to hold him around the shoulders, and he adjusts to grip her hips. He wants to touch as much of her as he can. His skin feels too hot for just himself.

From this position, her tits are right in front of his face, and he can’t stop himself from taking one into his mouth. She sighs at that, a hand moving from his shoulder to rest on the back of his head, her fingers lightly making patterns over his short hair. Gendry teases her nipple with his tongue as she slowly starts to fuck him.

It’s a lingering thing, this time. Not like the hallway or even at Winterfell. Arya moves over him, and eventually Gendry lifts his head to rest on her shoulder. Their breathing falls into patterns that match with their hips and he closes his eyes. He could happily fuck Arya for the rest of his life. It _feels_ like the rest of his life as she rocks unhurried on top of him.

When he feels himself start to tighten, he holds her closer, sweat coating both their bodies. Arya only needs to ride him for a few seconds more before he comes, letting out a hoarse grunt against her neck. Gendry reaches down, rubs her clit in a quick, circling motion a few times. Then Arya comes, too.

Neither of them move, the two breathing heavy as he feels himself trickle down her thigh.

\--

An hour or so after, they’re wrapped up in his cape. Neither are dressed, which Gendry imagines is going to be quite a shock if someone wants to pray tonight. Arya curls against him, her cheek resting on his chest and his arm around her back. His thumb rubs absently over her shoulder.

“If I get married,” she says quietly and Gendry goes very still. “I don’t want it to be for anything else than to get married.”

 _Careful,_ he thinks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m not going to be Jon.” Her voice sounds thicker, but Gendry knows she would hate for him to comment on it. “I’m not marrying because someone says I have to. Or to hold something broken together.” Her next statement makes him wince. “Or because someone needs help.”

“I’m sorry about that,” he says. “Really, I am.”

“I know.”

“That’s why I’m not going to propose again.” Arya lifts her cheek to look up at him, so he presses forward quickly. “You’d have to ask me, next time. If you ever wanted to.”

“And if I don’t?”

Gendry shifts so he can look at her face. He moves the hand on her shoulder to the side of her neck, his thumb now tracing over her cheekbones, the line of her jaw.

“I think I’d only like to wake up with you.”

Her eyes dart, trying to fully read his expression. He rests his forehead against hers.

“...in a featherbed?” She hesitantly asks.

Gendry presses a quick kiss to her lips. “Maybe just with a door. Sometimes.”

He thinks he feels her smile against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SUPER INCREDIBLY HONORED TO SAY THAT THERE IS NOW FANART FOR THIS!! The amazing [aritou](https://aritou-stuff.tumblr.com/) drew out the ["We're Pack" scene from chapter 7](https://aritou-stuff.tumblr.com/post/185465387292/im-in-love-with-a-fanfic-belongs-to-the-talented) and it is THE CUTEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN. 
> 
> **Clothes** because I'm Like That & terrible at describing them:
> 
> -Gendry's outfit is a mix of [this Stannis look](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/550213279474571532/), and this [Renly look](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/112941903142729772/). House Barathe _fab_
> 
> -Brienne's wearning the House Baratheon version of [this outfit](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/216806169547916572/).
> 
> -Jon's outfit is based on [Robb's Red Wedding< look](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/529454499920447409/)
> 
> -Sansa's dress is a mix of her [incredible coronation outfit that I will never be over](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/409546159864113838/), and one of [Catelyn Stark's dresses](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/447545281717936193/)
> 
> -Arya is wearing something close to [Lyanna's wedding dress](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/16536723618637501/) without the embellishments. oop
> 
> -Daenerys is in a red-and-white version of [this dress](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/143481938115656027/), but with long sleeves instead of a cape + a train. On her side is the Targaryen sigil detail that's been on [Rhaegar](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/738027457660652108/) and [Viserys'](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/431641945533836151/) tunics before.


	14. interlude: arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter after this and the king's landing arc is a wrap :D 
> 
> THANK YOU for all the amazing comments !!!! i know im really slow in replying to them, but i appreciate them--and y'all--so much!!

Three days after the wedding, she breaks her fast with Sansa. Arya’s absently picking at some fruit when her sister's voice cuts across her thoughts.

“You need to be more careful.”

Arya glances to her. “About what?”

Sansa doesn’t look up, pouring some tea into the cup in front of her. “You missed more than half of our cousin’s-”

“Brother’s.”

“-wedding. No one sees you the rest of the night. You come back to the Keep at dawn with twigs in your hair. And now I’ve heard you’ve been asking the apothecary for moon tea.” Sansa spreads her knife over a piece of bread, coating it in a browned butter. Her teeth sink into it, an audible crunch filling the small space of the foyer. “You know how important it is for us to be discreet right now.”

Arya doesn’t look away from her sister. Her fork punctures into a slice of melon. She keeps her voice level. “I’m not the one who showed up wearing a crown, Sansa.”

She dabs at her lips with a cloth napkin. “That’s not the same.”

“That’s because it’s worse.”

Sansa finally meets Arya’s gaze. “It’s not worse. People are talking about you.” Her voice goes softer. “Some don’t want to see a Stark and a Baratheon together. Most want it too much.”

Arya sets her fork down. The metal of it makes a snap against the table. “It’s not like that.”

“Like what?”

“Gendry doesn’t care about the throne.”

“So there _is_ something going on. I mentioned Ned Dayne to him last night and suspected.”

Arya drinks from her cup. She doesn't care to hide what's going on, and so she doesn't deny anything.

Sansa watches her, then leans back in her chair. "For what it’s worth, I think it's good for the Starks to ally with the Baratheons--which is why I released Brienne from my service to Gendry’s. But now, more than ever, is not the time to flaunt it under Daenerys' nose."

"It's not an alliance."

"He's not just some bastard in a forge anymore, Arya." Her expression is soft but her words are hard. "It _is_ an alliance."

Arya's jaw clenches. Sansa sees it as an opportunity to continue.

"Daenerys wants the North."

"The North is Jon's. She already has it."

Sansa frowns at that, but continues. "...and she's offered me the Master of Laws position on her Council."

"Congratulations," Arya says flatly.

Sansa shakes her head. "It's not a reward. She's doing it to keep me out of Winterfell. Away from our home."

 _Your home,_ Arya almost says. The thought strikes her, and it hurts to realize that it might be the truth. Winterfell was where Bran and Sansa and the bones of her father and brother were. It would always be important to her. But she's gone and come back, and for Arya that isn't the same as never leaving.

Arya watches her sister carefully. "Jon is here." She doesn't say _because of what you did,_ but she doesn't have to. They both know the truth of it, of Sansa’s plot against Daenerys and the precarious situation it put their brother in when Daenerys took King's Landing and  _plotting_ became  _treason_. "You'd be with Pack. Why does it matter?"

"I can't leave Bran alone."

Arya frowns. Not a lie. Not a truth, either. "...what are you planning, Sansa?"

"Nothing." A lie. "At least, not yet." True. "But things need to change, Arya. Someone needs to start that."

"Change," Arya says quietly, rolling the word around on her tongue. “Daenerys wanted to change things, too.”

“So you think I’m going to burn down a city?” Sansa snaps.

“You know I don’t. But we can’t…” Arya shakes her head, feeling tired in a way she can’t express.

"Can’t what?"

"You weren't there," Arya says, when she can’t find the end to her sentence. "It was just me and Jon. We saw it, Sansa." Her fingers curl into her palm. "You didn't."

"I understand." But she doesn't. No one could. Not even Gendry, who understood the destruction of Flea Bottom in a different way. "That's why we need to stop it from happening again."

"How does you getting the North do that?"

"I never said I was getting the North."

Arya's reminded, not for the first time, that Sansa is smart in a way she isn't. Arya can lie, act, fight, and kill. But she doesn't maneuver on the battlefields her sister fights on.

“Winter always comes, even if the summer lasts for years. What happened with Tyrion was a lesson.” Sansa’s eyes flicker up, cold and resolved. “I remember my lessons.”

Arya frowns. They sit in silence, each trying to get a measure of the other.

"Be careful," is all Arya can offer.

"You as well," Sansa says. "You might be playing an even more dangerous game than I am."

"What do you mean?"

Sansa watches her for a moment. Then her eyebrows furrow. "You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"...Arya…"

"Just say it."

Sansa presses her fingertips to the table. "There are rumors about Gendry getting an offer of betrothal-"

"That's not new."

"-from Daenerys."

Arya sets her fork down, but can't move anything else. "...what?"

Sansa closes her eyes for a moment before she speaks. "The little birds are singing again. They say she wants to merge the Crownlands and Stormlands if Gendry doesn't find a suitable wife."

Her heart feels like it's beating backwards, trying to burrow deep into her chest. She wants to yell, to protest, but she can't make anything go forward again. _She already took Jon._

"Arya…" Sansa sighs. "The little birds also say she and Gendry discussed it in the gardens a week ago."

"You're wrong," she finally pushes out. Because that's not Gendry. She knows he wouldn't. Not without telling her first.

"I don't know if I am, one way or the other." Sansa sends her a concerned look. "But Targaryens practice polygamy, and her marrying him makes political sense." Sansa's expression is perfectly controlled, but Arya can still hear the bitterness. "That way both possible threats to the throne are removed."

"Jon wouldn't agree."

"He's agreed to worse for the safety of the realm."

"He _wouldn't._ "

"It might not be up to him. Daenerys has a broken kingdom to hold together and marriage is the easiest way to quiet the Baratheon supporters."

"Gendry won't marry her."

"Why? Because he loves you?" Sansa's lips turn into something that is not quite a smile. Her shoulders slump forward then straighten. What she says next is haunted. "Love is for songs, Arya."

Her mother used to call her wild. Her father said she had wolf's blood. The court whispers she's feral. Her blood rushes in her ears and she wants to prove them all right.

"We love each other," she corrects. "And Gendry gets to go home."

Arya stands, shoving her chair back and making for the door.

"Arya," Sansa calls out quietly to her. Arya pauses in her step. "There's far less complicated men for you to be with."

"So."

"So why him?"

"Because," Arya says, words cold. "He's never been just some bastard in a forge."

The door closes on Sansa's beautiful, thoughtful face.

\--

She’s at the training yard for hours. Arya strikes at dummies with Needle, then daggers, then a stave. She shoots arrows. Even that fails to calm her. She just wants to keep moving until she can't feel anymore, until it's like she's back at the House of Black and White and a girl is not Arya Stark. But things have changed since Braavos, and now she can’t even pretend to let go.

There’s the crisp sound of someone biting into an apple. Then the slovenly one of someone chewing it with their mouth open. “Who’re you thinking about killing?”

Arya drops her bow, realizing the action is harder than it usually was when she practiced. Her muscles are already protesting in a way that lets her know she will be feeling every miserable second of this tomorrow.

“The queen,” she answers, knowing how stupid it is to do so in this yard.

“Again?”

“Different queen this time.”

Sandor steps away from the railing he’d been leaning against. “Just as stupid as before.”

Arya looks up at him as he towers over her. "She wants to marry Gendry."

Sandor shrugs. "Told you she would."

Arya bites the inside of her cheek, then goes to nock another arrow-

Sandor swats her bow out of her hand. "Put that shit away and grab your steel."

"Why?"

"Someone has to beat the stupid out of you. Might as well be me."

\--

She and Sandor spar for over an hour, until it's impossible for her to stand. Her lip is split, and she can tell her eye's already swelling. Sandor is braced against a training dummy, swearing to himself as he leans on his good side.

"It's getting worse, isn't it?" Arya asks, taking in his limp and the way he avoids putting any weight on the hip injured in the fire.

"You going to put me down like a dog?" Sandor grimaces, fighting through pain to fully stand. "Should've just done it when I asked."

Arya’s bent down on her knees as she tries to even out her breath. She observes him, eyes narrowing slightly.

"What are you going to do?" She asks, not for the first time.

He looks over his shoulder, before shaking his head with a scoff. "Something will kill me sooner or later."

"So you're waiting to die."

"Isn't that what we're all doing?"

Arya keeps her stare on him. "Valar dohaeris."

"What?"

Arya lets herself fall to the ground, eyes facing up at the sky. She looks for a winged silhouette, but all there is are clouds. "...all men must serve."

"Sounds like Braavosi shit."

"It is Braavosi shit."

"Then keep it to yourself. I don't need anything from those stupid whores." Arya hears him grunt, his heavy footfalls shuffling around as he gathers his gear.

"Sandor," she calls out, still looking at the sky.

"What?"

"If I went to the Stormlands, would you go with?"

A long pause. "Why'd you want something stupid like that?"

Arya exhales slowly, her chest rising up and falling. She doesn’t know if he thinks it’s stupid to  go to the Stormlands, or stupid to ask him to come with, but the answer why is the same. "We're family."

Sandor's shadow falls over her, his scowling face blocking out the sun.

Her side erupts in sharp pain when he kicks her.

"Get the fuck out the dirt."

\--

They sup together. It's become a routine after arriving in King's Landing, both of them content with stony silence.

Tonight's different.

"Them water dancing fucks only survive because they're fast," Sandor mutters as he pours himself more wine.

"So?"

He drinks deeply from his tankard. "So strike first, like the cold bitch you are."

\--

The first day of the Council is tomorrow. That night in her room, Arya stares into the fire and thinks on Sandor's advice.

\--

Arya decides when she wakes up that morning. She rises early, and dresses in her customary doublet and skirt, sheathing Needle into her belt and leaving her rooms with a determined set to her jaw. She searches the Keep, looking for Gendry or Brienne or Podrick or anyone else from the Stormlands. She needs to talk to him before the Council starts, to tell him what she plans-

"Arya."

She stops, turning to see Sansa standing in the hall. Her hands are folded in her sleeves, clothes back to their usual dark greys and blacks. The Lady of Winterfell always dresses like she’s off to war, and Arya imagines today that’s more true than most.

"Where are you going?" Her sister asks.

"I'm looking for Gendry."

"He's left for the Queen’s Council already." Sansa frowns, voice growing concerned. "You're pale."

Arya swallows. Her palms are clammy. "I need to talk to him."

"Why?"

She shakes her head, walking toward the King's Quarters instead.

"Arya-!"

_Fear cuts deeper than swords._

\--

Her brother isn’t alone, but one look at her and he gestures for his guards to leave the room. Once they’re gone, Arya’s mouth goes dry as she stares at Jon.

“Who hurt you?” And she’s thrown when there’s a snarl to his words.

It takes her a moment, but Arya quickly realizes he’s talking about the cut through her lip and the bruise on her face. “Sparring.”

Jon lets out a sigh, the anger dissipating. “We can’t trust anyone here, can we?”

She thinks of Gendry, Sandor. “Almost.”

When she doesn’t move or say anything, Jon steps forward to face her. He’s in Northern clothes, too. The Stark clothes. It makes what she has to ask him all that much easier.

"Jon."

He looks at her with features that are so like her own. "What is it?"

Arya breathes deep, steeling herself. "I need you to be my brother today."

Jon frowns, his hurt clear. "I'm always your brother."

She steps close, and in reflex he brings his arms around her. Arya holds her favorite sibling tightly. "Before you're the King," she clarifies.

"...what are you planning, Arya?"

"Please, Jon," Arya says, feeling very much like a nine-year-old girl again. "Promise."

A long silence.

"Alright," Jon whispers. "Because it's you."

And Arya’s heart unsticks itself, moving forward once again.

\--

The light dirt of the dragonpit coats the tops of Arya’s boots as she, Sansa, Sandor, and a few members of Sansa’s host make their way to the canopied area that will hold the Council. The seats are already arranged--banners in order similar to the way they were during the wedding. The only difference is two, grander seats are now positioned under the Targaryen sigil in the center. Even knowing the truth of his parentage, it hurts Arya to see that Jon doesn’t get to fly Stark banners for his own, that he still gets the swords but not the arms even when he’s King. But he smiles at her as they arrive and it helps.

When Sansa goes to sit under the Stark banner, Arya does not. Instead, she finds Gendry.

He’s watching her like he always does, but when their eyes meet he frowns. Arya’s not sure what to make of that, but she’s not discouraged. Her hands make fists at her side, and she storms over to the banners of black and yellow with intent. She feels eyes on her, knows one pair of them is Daenerys’.

Without a word, she takes the empty seat next to Gendry.

“What happened?” He asks, voice low. He scans her face and she notices when he pauses on her lip. 

Arya rolls her eyes, the frown making sense. “Sparring, stupid.”

Gendry seems to relax. Then he takes in the banners, the people sitting underneath them, and sends her a side glance.

"Shouldn't you be over there?" He cocks his head toward the Stark sigil, where Sansa’s blatantly staring at them.

"No."

Gendry shakes his head, but he’s smiling a little. "Suit yourself."

And Arya stares at his profile. At his stupid, sharp cheekbones. His stupid blue eyes. His really stupid haircut that she’s finally come around on. Her blood’s rushing in her ears as she thinks of wolves. Wolf’s blood. She has wolf’s blood. Because only a wolf would try to steal a dragon’s kill.

“Something on my face?” Gendry asks with a bit of a smirk.

Arya doesn’t get to answer that question, because she hears Daenerys’ voice ring out.

“Thank you for coming, I’d like to welcome you to the first full Council- ”

She has to protect her pack.

“Gendry,” she says quietly.

He seems to pick up on her tenseness, because his tone is soft. “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry this is how I’m asking.”

“Asking for wh-?”

Arya stands before he can finish the question. The movement is sudden and violent, and as the chair pushes back, everyone turns to stare at her. Arya feels Sansa’s, Jon’s, and Daenerys’ in particular.

“Arya Stark. There is something you have to say?” Daenerys asks, pointed but not angry. Her eyebrows are raised and there’s a flat smile on her face.

What Arya’s about to do is rash and stupid, but she knows she has to do it. Now. Where all the other Lords and Ladies can see and hear. Her eyes seek out Jon’s, and there’s a slight frown between his brows but he gives her his full attention without interruption.

Arya takes a deep breath and says the words that are going to change everything for her.

“I ask for my brother the King's consent.”

Daenerys turns to Jon, questions in her eyes. But Arya hasn’t told Jon what she plans to do, and so his confusion is genuine.

“What for?”

“My betrothal to Gendry Baratheon.”

Silence can be felt. Movement stops, attention fixates. But Arya just stares ahead, her hand on Needle’s hilt. Jon’s gaze moves to somewhere over her shoulder and she knows he’s looking at Gendry. Arya can’t bring herself to do the same.

She counts her heart beats to shut everything else out. One, two.

“Granted,” Jon murmurs, and the word is as loud as a shout.


	15. what the fuck just happened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic just hit 1k subscribers!! so i thought i'd work to get another chapter out <3 
> 
> **notes**  
>  -someone on tumblr asked what gendry's face looked like after arya Did That. [so here is a visual reference.](https://gizkasparadise.tumblr.com/post/185814884022/not-sure-if-this-is-a-spoiler-but-im-gonna-need-a)
> 
> -we're officially done with the king's landing arc after this! off to fight around the stormlands next
> 
> -oh god i know im so behind on replying to comments im so sorry. i swear i wont update again until i get to all of them <3 <3 thank you for them!!! they're what make it easy to update :D

After the Long Night and surviving the end of the world, not much cuts Gendry to the core. But then he hears _it._ It’s a deep noise, starting somewhere in the belly. Emerging with a rasp not unlike the scraping sound a whetstone makes. Breaking free with a bark.

Gendry’s last 30 seconds of life have made about as much sense as him getting his own name wrong during a proposal. And this _horrible_ , unsettling sound does nothing to assure him the last 30 seconds have actually happened. 

Sandor Clegane…  
... _laughed._

Arya just proposed (sort of). The Hound just laughed. And Gendry thought he already survived the end of the world, but maybe he hasn’t yet. If he were able to look away from Arya, who’s standing with her hand on her sword like she’s preparing for a fight, he might check to make sure Brienne wasn’t voluntarily wearing a gown.

He knows he must look like an idiot, but it’s like all the muscles in his face are frozen--head tilted up, eyes wide, mouth open. What the fuck just happened?

The Hound’s laugh dies by echoing in the dragonpit, the sound lingering in the air and sure to haunt his dreams forever. Gendry feels eyes on him, knows they’re probably staring at Arya, too. Seconds pass--one, two, three. 

Then Arya sits, as though nothing has happened. Like she hasn’t changed his entire life. Gendry’s head tilts down to follow her, expression unchanging. On his right, Podrick snickers and then delicately covers for it with a light cough.

More seconds or a hundred years pass. It’s the voice of Daenerys Targaryen that breaks the silence.

“Congratulations,” she says, words slow and gaze sharp. “To House Baratheon and House Stark.”

Gendry barely hears it, even though he knows those words are monumental. He keeps staring at Arya’s profile, like the line of her nose is going to give him some kind of answer.

“Close your mouth, stupid,” she mutters, still not looking at him.

He does. It’s like the motion lets him turn his head again. Gendry’s eyes dart to the thrones in the center of the pavillon. Daenerys is pointedly neutral, lips pressed together and posture remarkably straight. Her eyes meet Gendry’s and her mouth shows the barest hint of a frown.

And Jon…  
Jon looks very much like he wants to talk to Gendry later.

Daenerys starts talking about unity or prosperity or whatever empty promise she’s peddling today. Were he not in borderline shock, he’d notice the way her lips purse, just a little, as she sends Arya a lingering look.

But Gendry _is_ preoccupied, his eyes sliding to Arya and staying there.

“You just told me to marry you,” he says carefully.

Arya finally turns to him, and her eyes are round. She seems nervous, though it’s somewhat offset by her hands clasped in front of her stomach and her slouched posture. “So?”

“I at least asked _._ ”

“Fine. Do you want to marry me?”

“Yes.”

“Then why does it matter?”

Gendry sits there, still stupid, still not sure what the fuck’s happening, still deathly afraid of Sandor Clegane’s laugh. But it’s like he can’t control the muscles in his face again, as the corners of his eyes crinkle and a wide smile crosses his face.

Arya watches him carefully, then a corner of her mouth pulls into the smallest of grins. And Gendry can’t help himself. He leans over, rests his hand on one of her cheeks, and kisses her. Her hand rests goes on top of his as she kisses him back. The act is not unnoticed.

“ _Tariffs_ , my Lord,” Brienne says with an annoyed whisper near his ear. Then she looks past him, hesitantly adding: “Congratulations, Lady Arya.”

Gendry pulls back, eyes searching hers. Arya means it, he thinks. She actually means it. And his next smile is even bigger than the last.

“...Thanks,” Arya says to Brienne, sounding out of sorts.

Gendry’s getting married.  
To Arya Stark.  
And no one’s dead yet.

\--

Gendry makes it through the first day of the Council, although it’s the hardest thing he’s had to do in awhile. Arya’s sitting under his banner, wanting to marry him, _going_ to marry him, and all he wants to do is find the nearest room with a door.

But he can’t. He knows that. And so he fights against every instinct he has to pay attention as the Lannisters, Martells, and Yara Greyjoy argue over rights to Highgarden. After the third or fourth shouting match, he’s able to focus more, although he occasionally catches his foot tapping against the ground.

“Highgarden,” Daenerys says with authority, expression stern. “Will go to whoever can farm its lands. The Reach has the majority of Westeros’ grain fields, and we must make use of them.”

 _Burned those too, didn’t you?_ Gendry folds his arms over his stomach. 

Yara frowns, knowing the Iron Born are not farmers. Gendry’s pretty sure there’s something about that in their House words. “Then its coffers should go to those who stayed loyal to the Queen.” She makes eyes with the new Lord Paramount of Casterly Rock, Geraint Lannister. “Who bled for her.”

Gendry snorts, the sound earning the Salt Queen’s glare and Daenerys’ level stare.

“Have something to say?” Yara demands. 

“You know who’s bled the most for Queen Daenerys,” Gendry says flatly. “It’s not anyone under this tent.”

She frowns, but considers his words. “ _Some_ of the coffers should go, then.”

“If the Iron Islands are demanding restitution for loyalty,” Sansa interjects. “Surely Your Grace recognizes the damage done to Winterfell after the Long Night?” Yara scowls at her with such vehemence that Gendry’s a little thrown. There’s something between the two women, like bad blood.

“A quarter of Highgarden’s coffers will go to the restoration efforts of King’s Landing,” Daenerys says after a moment. “An eighth to the Iron Islands to rebuild their fleet. An eighth for the North to continue rebuilding after the Battle of Winterfell. The rest will remain with its people.” She’s quiet for a long time. “Is this acceptable to the Council?”

There’s a chorus of Ayes, near all begrudging. Gendry works his jaw but finally adds his. King's Landing deserves more. They deserve all of it, except what Highgarden’s people need to farm.

“We’ve yet to establish who will take Highgarden,” Quentyn Martell drawls. 

Daenerys lifts her chin. “The Six Kingdoms must remain the _Six_ Kingdoms. We’ll summit with the major Houses of the Reach and decide from there.”

The highborns all look upset at the news. Vultures, the lot of them, circling over the dead.

The conversation turns to tariffs again, and Gendry watches the highborn bicker about things that don’t matter, his mind going back and turning toward thoughts for the future--things he hasn’t hoped for since Winterfell, but might want to hope for now.

Arya snarls at Geraint Lannister when he challenges one of Jon’s suggestions, and Gendry falls in love with her a little more as the older man visibly recoils.

 _That’s my future wife,_ he thinks, awed.

\--

The Council adjourns as the sun sinks below the horizon. As he leaves with Daenerys, Jon sends a look to Arya before he stares at Gendry. Gendry meets his gaze, waiting to see how things will unfold between the two bastard sons of the men who stole a kingdom. 

Jon frowns, but it’s not necessarily unhappy. Concerned, maybe. And Gendry can understand that. Daenerys says something to him under her breath, and he reluctantly tears his attention away from them. 

“An...interesting start to a Council,” Podrick says, eyes on Arya and a grin on his face.

“Unorthodox,” Brienne agrees, although she doesn’t look like she disapproves. 

The Lords and Yara begin to dismiss themselves after the King and Queen, and Gendry notices more than a few of them send looks to those standing underneath the Baratheon banner. But it’s the Hound who addresses them first, hand on the hilt of his sword and only speaking to Arya.

“You’ve got the biggest balls in Westeros,” the Hound states. “It’ll get you killed one day.”

“Not this one,” Arya says.

“Seems like.” His watches Gendry, unimpressed. He supposes that’s an improvement over a scowl. “Lord Twat,” the Hound says in dismissal, not even waiting for a response before he strides toward the dining hall where a feast is to be held.

Edmure Tully walks past the Baratheon banners, pauses as though he just realized he missed something, and turns around to greet them.

“Niece,” he says warmly, smile on his face.

“Uncle,” Arya returns, a little less enthused but not unwelcoming.

“Lord Baratheon,” he says, clearing his throat and correcting his posture. Gendry doesn’t say anything in response, mainly because he thinks he’s about to be talked to. “House Tully and House Baratheon have been allies ever since…” Edmure falters. “It is a happy time to recognize our new relations and renewed friendship between Houses.”

He’s about to be his niece’s husband ( _husband_ ). Gendry’s not sure what that means in terms of an alliance, but he determines it must not be that important of one. Edmure extends his arm, and Gendry clasps it.

“Sure,” he agrees. Beside him, he’s pretty certain Arya is smirking.

Edmure clasps his other arm on top of Gendry’s, and he’s not sure if that’s normal, but as Edmure continues talking he drops them both. “A momentous occasion of statecraft as well, is it not? A relief to understand the tariffs to be imposed on the silk imported from Yi Ti.”

He hadn’t been listening to that part, mainly because only nobles bought silk and so he didn’t care how much extra they had to pay for it. 

“Uncle,” Sansa interjects crisply, standing next to Edmure. “The tariffs have been in place for five years now.”

“I, yes. Yes of course.” He straightens his jerkin. “I trust we will speak more at the feast?”

“If we’re there,” Arya says, and Gendry grins when he catches her meaning--trying and failing to hide it by looking down at his boots. 

“Very good. I’m certain my lady is eager to introduce our daughter to you.” Edmure’s expression goes soft, his words sincere. “We’ve named her Elyn, after my dear sister.”

“The Lady Catelyn would be honored,” Brienne states, moved.

“She would.” For the first time since Gendry’s known her, Sansa Stark smiles like she means it. “I look forward to meeting her.”

“Me too,” Arya says quietly.

The moment of vulnerability sits suspended between them, only broken when Sansa gives a pointed request. “Uncle, if I may have a word with my sister and future good brother?”

“Family first.” Edmure nods to Arya, then Gendry. “I offer my congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Gendry says, meaning it. Because it does matter to him that Arya’s uncle seems genuine. That someone’s on their side.

As soon as the Lord of the Riverlands leaves, Sansa raises an eyebrow toward her sister. 

“That was bold.” Her words are level.

“Good.” Arya steps a little in front of him. 

“And now that matter’s settled.” Sansa faces Gendry. “Winterfell’s gates will always be open to the Lord and Lady of Storm’s End, should you find yourself in the North.”

Arya bristles at the title. So Gendry’s arm tentatively moves to her side, then around her waist when she slowly leans into his hold. He lets out a breath, the exchange not unlike when he has to gauge the right temperature for tempering steel.

“Thank you, Sansa,” Arya says.

Sansa looks down at her little sister, her eyes kind. “Of course.” She folds her hands in front of her. “Now I suppose it’s time to attend the feast and listen to our beloved Queen.” Her gaze slides from Arya to Gendry, then back to Arya. “Although I suspect I won’t see you there.”

“Probably not,” Arya agrees. Gendry’s hand flexes where it rests on her hip.

The motion does not escape Sansa, who closes her eyes and gives a short, but audible, exhale through her nose. 

Nor does the implication escape Brienne. “It would be prudent to have a representative from the Stormlands.” She relaxes her grip on her sword. “Lady Sansa? If I may escort you.”

Sansa sends Gendry a last look. He gets the same feeling he did the night of the wedding feast, like she is taking note of things he can’t see or figure for. “Congratulations, Lord Baratheon. I assume you know what happens if anything untoward happens to Arya in the Stormlands.”

He’s not all that threatened. One, because nothing like that’s going to happen. And two… “She’ll take care of it, I imagine.”

The corner of Sansa’s mouth twitches. She leaves without further comment, Brienne in tow. Podrick clasps his hand on his shoulder, and then he follows after.  

No one sees Sansa’s satisfied smirk once her back is toward them.

\--

The air is cool once they enter the halls of the Keep, the respite from the hot Southron sun appreciated. Unable to restrain himself anymore, he stops. When Arya faces him, Gendry combs the fingers of one of his hands through her hair, his eyes searching hers. 

Gendry swallows. “You’re coming home with me.”

Arya’s nod is slow, but there. Real.

A short laugh escapes him. Gendry leans and rests his forehead down on hers. It’s Arya who kisses him, a soft pressure that stirs up something quiet. He kisses back, parting her lips and bringing his free hand to her waist. His thumb runs over the crest of her hip, and his pulse quickens. Arya smiles and he laughs again, fingers dropping from her hair.

He steps away. “What changed your mind?”

Arya just shakes her head, like he's asked a phenomenally stupid question. “Me.”

Gendry reaches out to hold her hand between his thumb and palm. Slowly, he brings her knuckles up and presses his lips to them, the stubble on his chin brushing against the flats of her fingers.

She averts her gaze to the floor, expression annoyed. But Gendry sees the slight red tint to her cheeks and smiles.

\--

They don’t make it to the feast.  
And find somewhere with a door.

\--

The next morning, he goes to tell his men. Ory looks bemused, Steffen tilts his head.

Ronard’s the first to speak, words measured. “We thought you and Lady Stark were already betrothed.”

Gendry frowns. “Why’d you think that?”

Cedric shrugs. “Soldiers talk.”

\--

Gendry writes his first raven, knowing it’s probably not right. But he wants to do it himself.

 _Davos,  
_ _Aryas kommin too Storms End_  
_were betrowed_

He pauses.

 _Make shure she gets knice rooms.,  
_ _-Gendry_

\--

The third and last morning of the Council, Gendry is helping his host prepare the horses for travel. They’re set for Storm’s End the next morning, and he’s eager to leave King’s Landing as soon as possible. Were it up to him, they’d been gone two days ago. Two _weeks_ ago. Gendry hefts two saddle bags over his shoulder, drops one gently onto Arya’s white horse before his own tan one. 

“You’re a hard man to find.”

Gendry closes his eyes, fingers automatically finishing the knots like Arya’s showed him. When he opens them, he turns to Arya’s brother. 

“Been meaning to talk to you,” he says honestly.

Jon nods. “You have a moment?”

“Yeah.” Gendry brushes off the dirt from the front of his trousers. “I have a few.”

\--

They end up back at the sitting room they were in when he first arrived to King’s Landing. There’s a desk strewn with papers, a pitcher, and two glasses. Gendry tells himself he’s not nervous, but it seems like Jon’s planned out this discussion and that might not be a good thing.

Jon sags in one seat, and gestures for Gendry to do the same. When he does, Jon pours wine for Gendry first, then himself. “I was asked to stop you from telling Geraint Lannister to fuck off again.”

Gendry reaches for his glass. “Was only twice.”

“Don’t make it three,” Jon says, before taking a drink. He starts to set the glass back on the table, thinks better of it, and takes another healthy swallow. “I’m guessing you know what I want to talk about.”

Gendry drinks this time. “I have an idea.”

Jon slumps in his chair, posture very un-Kingly. “I had no idea she even knew you, before you showed up here together.” His lip twitches, a grin with no humor to it. “And I doubt anyone could convince Arya to marry them in a few weeks.”

Gendry hears the question that’s not being asked. “We’ve known each other for awhile.”

“Arya’s never mentioned you-” Gendry keeps his face schooled at that, but his fingers tighten a bit on the glass. “-and you’ve never mentioned her.” Jon’s voice holds a bit of a challenge to it. “Not at Dragonstone. Or beyond the Wall.” And Gendry's grip loosens. “You knew I was her brother?”

He gives a tight nod. “She was trying to get to you. We were heading to the castle at the Wall, at first.”

“When?”

There isn’t an easy way to say it, and Gendry’s never been known for tact. “After they killed Ned Stark. Lannisters wanted us both dead. For obvious reasons.” He runs a hand over his head, short hair spikey under his palm. “Escaped King’s Landing. Then Harrenhal.” Gendry wants to leave that place behind him, but the name always makes him think of rats and mud and shit. “Made it to the Riverlands after that. It’s where we met Thoros of Myr and Beric.”

Jon processes this. “That was years ago.”

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t think to say anything?”

Gendry takes a moment to work the answer out in his head. “Honestly, I’m not sure why I didn’t. But I think it’s...” he inhales. “It’s because I didn’t want to know."

“Know what?”

He stares at the table. “If you didn’t know. Or you did, and it was because she was dead.” Gendry looks up, meets Jon’s eyes. His voice falls quiet as he lifts his glass to his lips again. “...I couldn’t know. If it was that.” 

Gendry drinks. Jon dutifully refills his glass once he surrenders it.

“And since when have you…?” He doesn’t sound comfortable finishing the question.

His ears burn. “Winterfell,” he mutters. And he bites the inside of his cheek. “Not, uh.” Gendry looks up at the ceiling. “Not long before the battle.” Right before. Because of.

“...right.” Jon takes a drink. 

They sit in silence. 

“I wish you would have told me,” Jon admits.

“I should’ve. I just didn’t think it’d happen again.”

“What would happen again?”

“Another proposal.” There’s a pause long enough for Gendry to realize he’s a fucking idiot.

“ _Another_ -?” Jon starts at the same time Gendry quickly says, “She said no.”

Now Jon’s frowning in earnest. “And what’s different this time?”

“I’m not drunk.” Which seems like an honest enough answer. “And we're different, now.”  _We all are, after the Burning_ _._ “Things aren’t the same.”

Jon mulls over this, but the frown doesn’t leave his face. “You love her?”

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

Gendry thinks about it, resting his elbows on the table. “I don’t know. I just have. I just do. Always, maybe. It’s changed, is all.”

Jon sits with that, then lets out a long sigh and Gendry is reasonably sure at this point he’s not going to be run through with the King’s fancy Valyrian steel. “She never takes the easy way,” he says, more to himself and sounding tired.

“Not once,” Gendry agrees.

Jon shakes his head. “So long as it’s what Arya wants…” he lifts his glass. “Then nothing I say will convince her otherwise.”

Gendry gives a short laugh to himself at that, lifting his glass to clink against Jon’s. “Do I call you good brother, now?”

Jon closes his eyes. “Let me get used to the idea.”

\--

They share another glass of wine, and by that point it’s time for them both to prepare for the final day of the Council.

“Gendry,” Jon calls out as he makes to leave, his back to him.

“Yeah?” He asks, turning around.

“...she’s the person I care about most.”

Gendry thinks of Needle, the only thing Arya’s never let go of in the time he’s known her. “I know.” And, because it’s true: “Me too.”

Jon nods, an understanding reached, and Gendry shuts the door behind him.

\--

The last day of the Council cuts to the heart of the matter. 

“I’d like to discuss appointments to the Small Council,” Daenerys says steadily. Her eyes travel from face to face. “Some are already spoken for.” She nods to her right, where Grey Worm sits. “Torgo Nudho will serve as my Master of War. My husband as Hand of the Queen.” Her eyes find the kraken’s banner, and she smiles. Gendry follows her gaze to see Yara smirking back. “Queen Yara will serve as Master of Ships and will form a separate, combined fleet of our forces as a gesture of goodwill between our kingdoms. And Sansa Stark will serve as my Master of Law.”

“I apologize, your Grace,” Sansa says. “But I must refuse.”

Daenerys’ temper is an almost tangible thing. “On what grounds?”

“You are in dire need of a capable Master of Whispers.” Sansa bears herself like a queen, and Gendry can't help but think that Westeros has had its share of queens. “And there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

He’s not sure of her meaning, neither, it seems, is anyone else. Gendry turns to where Arya sits next to him, hoping she can enlighten him. But she only stares across the pavilion at her sister, eyes narrowed.

“Explain,” Daenerys requests, the word measured.

“My brother Bran,” Sansa begins. “Is not an ordinary man, as you know.” She stares at Daenerys, defiant. “And he sees the truth of things unlike anyone else. Clearly he would be of more use to you than I.”

“He’s agreed to this?” Jon interrupts, voice thick with disbelief. 

“If he doesn’t,” Sansa says coolly, “He would have told me not to say it before I left.”

“Sansa,” Arya says under her breath, giving the smallest shake of her head at her. Sansa pointedly doesn’t look at Arya, her spine straight.

For the second time, Daenerys finds herself maneuvered into a decision by a Stark. “...I’ll consider your suggestion.”

“There’s already too many Starks on your Small Council,” Geraint Lannister protests. 

Daenerys’ leans in her throne, angling her body to face him. “I assume you have a suggestion for Master of Laws?

Geraint opens his mouth to answer, but one of the women sitting underneath the Lion's banner speaks first. She’s not that old, maybe a handful of years older than Gendry is. 

“I could.”

Daenerys’ brows raise. “And you are?”

“Tionne Lannister.” Her tone takes an edge. “I’ve been handling my father’s petitions for the last five years as he drinks our coffers into the ground.”

Geraint’s face is red. “My Queen-”

“We will talk more,” Daenerys addresses Tionne. “And if you’ve the experience…” Daenerys presses her lips together as she stares directly at Sansa. “It is a good thing, to keep rival Houses close. In counsel.”

Tionne crosses her arms over her chest, looking smug. 

It’s decided that Quentyn Martell will serve as Master of Coin, and announced that Samwell Tarly will be Daenerys’ Grand Maester. Gendry can hardly wait to leave, and he knows that the assigning of the Small Council was the last item to be discussed. Just when he thinks the Council is dismissed, that he is  _finally_ free to leave, Daenerys’ voice cuts through.

“Gendry Baratheon.”

Arya goes still to his side and Gendry is instantly on the defensive. “What?”

“I will be creating a new position on the Small Council.” Daenerys evaluates him. “I'm calling the appointment the Herald. They will hear matters of concern to the smallfolk, and present the majority affairs to the Small Council. I would like for you to fill this seat.”

Gendry stares at her, not sure if this is a jape. When she does not laugh or soften her expression, he sits with the statement. He doesn’t trust her intent behind it or her sincerity. It’s hard to believe in either, after what she’s done to them. But something like this...he doesn’t think that’s ever been done. It’s something that _needs_ to be done, if anything like water or housing is going to get fixed.

“Don’t,” Arya says lowly, so only he can hear.

“If you’re going to have someone talking for the smallfolk,” he says with no small hint of annoyance. “It ought to be up to the smallfolk.” Almost immediately, there’s murmurs. And Gendry wants to hit all of them until they have to be a little louder about whatever it is they want to say. “Let them pick one of their own. Promise that the person won’t be executed-”

“I have no intention of executing anyone,” Daenerys interrupts coldly, composure finally breaking.

“-or tortured or imprisoned or anything like that. Make them as important as the Master of War or whatever else.” He glares around the pavilion. “And then maybe you lot shut the fuck up and listen to them for once.”

Gendry knows he hasn’t made any friends with his suggestion. But he doesn’t want them. Not here.

“And you don’t consider yourself part of the smallfolk?” Daenerys questions, her anger at his earlier statement a thing she’s forcing herself to swallow.

“I’ve got a castle. People cook for me and my name’s announced whenever I open a big enough door.” He feels only a little bitter about it all. “I’m a Lord. Because you made me one.” Then, challenging: “Can’t be too hard to make another lowborn your Herald after that. Can it?”

“House Stark seconds,” Arya says quickly, her gaze locked with her sister’s. “Don’t we.”

Sansa hesitates. But after a few moments, she holds to her sister. “...We do.”

“House Tully as well.” Edmure’s voice is surprisingly strong. 

Daenerys closes her eyes, before giving a small nod. 

“It seems you get your wish, Lord Baratheon.”

\--

The Lords and Ladies have their final feast together. Gendry finds himself sitting with the Tullys, after Arya, Sansa, and Jon depart to have whatever sibling discussion they need to have before they go their separate roads. He suspects Arya will make her way back to Winterfell at some point or another. Maybe she’ll let him come along.

Brienne holds a squirming Elyn in her lap. “She has the look of Lady Catelyn,” she observes with an understated happiness. 

Gendry doesn’t know what Lady Catelyn looked like, but the young toddler’s got bright red hair, big blue eyes, and seems a little like she’s ready to pick a fight.

Roslin Tully gives the knight and her daughter a soft smile. “She’s expecting a sibling soon.”

Edmure rolls his shoulders back with pride, arm around his wife and naked affection in his eyes. He raises a tankard. “To the next Tully!”

Gendry lifts his, deciding he can maybe stand at least one Lord in King’s Landing.

\--

He’s into his cups when he makes his way from the Tully’s table to his quarters. Unfortunately, he has to pass by the head table to do so, and he’s not five steps away from it when he hears Daenerys’ call.

“Lord Baratheon.”

Gendry stops. “Your Grace,” he manages, sobering quickly.

“An interesting suggestion today.” She has a glass of wine in front of her that looks untouched.

“You asked,” he reminds her. 

“I did,” she concedes. Her purple eyes lock onto his. “I imagine I’ll be hearing more in the future.”

Gendry never wants to come back to this fucking city again. “We’ll see.”

“Hm.” She gives him a polite smile that doesn’t match her eyes. “Safe travels back to Storm’s End, Lord Baratheon. And congratulations once more on your upcoming wedding. No doubt songs will soon be written about stags and wolves.”

“I don’t care about any of that.”

“Someone will.” Daenerys lays one of her hands flat against the table, the pearl ring on her index finger catching the light. “That’s a lesson you’ll need to learn.”

“Or what?”

“As you said, you’ll get another battle." She sends him a grin without warmth. “But not from me.”

He’s not sure what to make of that. If it’s a threat or a warning. He settles on a shallow bow, and leaves without another word or look back.

\--

He must’ve already been asleep when she snuck in, because Gendry wakes with his body curled around Arya’s, the two of them laying on their sides. From the window high up on the wall, he sees the sky pinkening and hears birds chirping. 

Gendry kisses the top of her head, somehow knowing she’s awake. “We’d better get going.”

Arya doesn’t move for awhile, or turn to look at him. One of her hands grips tightly into an arm he’s got wrapped around her stomach. And he thinks back to nights at Harrenhal or on the road, her body pressed against his and trying to make itself as small as possible. Arya’s afraid, and she’s letting him see it.

“I’ll meet you at the gates,” she whispers.

Gendry closes his eyes, and part of him can’t help but question whether she’s about to leave him again. But he’s got to trust. They’ve got to trust each other. 

“Alright.”

\--

The Baratheon banners are waving high, and Gendry is so focused on watching the entrance to the Keep that he almost misses who decides to join their party.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Gendry says as the Hound rides up.

“Better pay me what I want, Lord Twat,” he warns him as he passes by without another word, his horse stopping further up the line where Brienne and Podrick are.

“I’m not going to pay you at all,” Gendry mutters, hands tightening the holds on his saddle with a little more violence than usual. 

“I’ll pay him.”

Gendry startles, looking down with wide eyes to see Arya standing there. Her hair’s up in a neat bun, and she’s holding the reins of the white horse he’s saddled for her. Gendry’s eyes catch on the one-shouldered cape she’s wearing over worn travel leathers--it looks a lot like her old one, but he swears it’s black with golden fur now.

“Ready?” She asks.

He smiles, taking an extra second to just look at her before he answers.

“Yeah.” He grabs the reins to his own horse. “Let’s go home.”


	16. interlude: hot pie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i lied have another chapter :'| it's admittedly a little filler/fluff, but it felt Spiritually Important for Reasons

His days are a bit boring, if he’s being honest. But Hot Pie doesn’t mind boring all that much. After a life on the run as an outlaw, fighting off danger at every moment and all that, he’s decided he likes pies more than he liked taking a stand against all them Lannisters. Even though the Brotherhood probably needed him more than the Inn. 

The Inn still needs him pretty bad, though.

“I can’t get this right,” Beth says to him, a petulant frown on her face and her arms covered in flour up to the elbows. 

“That’s because you got to be gentle,” Hot Pie says, _gently._ He stands next to her, oblivious to the blush on her cheeks, as he flops the dough over and pads it lightly with a roller. “Like that. Then you got to let it breathe or it just gets all gummy again.”

“Not all us can be like you,” she says, blush deepening. 

Hot Pie puffs his chest up a little at that. “You can probably get there with practice.”

Beth leans against the butcher’s block. “Guess that means I’ll need you to show me more.”

He blinks. “If you want."

“Maybe later tonight-?”

There’s the smell of something burning. Hot Pie rushes toward the ovens, then stops, and turns back to Beth as he raises his index finger.

“Not so hard on the dough, alright?”

“There’s something else I’d rather be hard on.”

He blinks again. “What’s that?”

Beth stares at him for a long time, then scowls and picks up the rolling pin. As she slams it against the table, Hot Pie shakes his head as he leaves.

Not everyone’s cut out to be bakers.

\--

Later, he’s got to help out Jena with some of the washing. They both squat outside the back of the Inn, her skirts hitched up and tied to the side of her knee. Hot Pie dunks the mugs and tankards into a bin of soapy, cold water as Jena takes a rag to the rest and cleans them out enough so they don’t smell.

“You busy tonight, Hot Pie?” She asks, one of her fingers going up to curl a strand of her hair, which Hot Pie thinks is a little dumb, seeing as she’s got curly hair already.

“Got to make dinner.” His nose wrinkles as he lifts up a mug with something crusted on the bottom. Wordlessly, he tosses it over his shoulder and into the woods. 

“Maybe we ought to make it together?”

Hot Pie looks up, eyebrows scrunching. “Why’d you want to do that?”

“Just thought...you and me…” Jena looks down, smiling.

He shakes his head. “But you’re really bad at cooking.”

She glares, throwing down her rag and storming back into the Inn, where she slams the door behind her.

Hot Pie falls to sit on the ground. Then goes back to cleaning his mugs, a little upset that now he’s got to dry, too.

\--

It’s busy tonight. He hears from some of the soldiers it’s because the Royal Wedding’s all done with, and the Lords are making it back to their castles. Hot Pie smiles at that, dragging the back of his arm over his forehead and collecting some of the sweat that’s starting to form. More people are sitting at their tables, and so that means it’s getting hotter. A few even take their drinks outside to sit by the stables and stys, hoping to get some air. He guesses Arry and Gendry are making their way back now. Hot Pie’s never been to the Stormlands, he don’t think, and so they could be there already. Or Arry could be in Winterfell with her brother...the other one, that is. He figures the King’s got to stay put, now. 

It makes him sad to think maybe they didn’t stop by. He’d’ve made a cake or something. He some sugar stored up that Beth had given him for some reason. Do they even like cake? Arry’s gotta. Being a rich girl and all. But Gendry’s a rich boy now. Did people just start liking cakes once they got gold, or-?

“Hot Pie!” The old man who owns the Inn, Tom, calls out. “Get one of them Dornish casks. There’s people with coin here.”

Hot Pie sighs. He hates rolling those barrels out. It’s not fair they only ask him to do it every time. He can’t help that he’s gotten so strong.

\--

Brigitt sends him a slow glance as they hammer the spigot into the cask. “This has got a lot of weight to it, don’t it?”

He’s huffing a bit, having _just_ rolled it up. “Too much.” Hot Pie shakes his head. “ ‘s not even Dornish red. Just red.” His nose wrinkles. “Guessing _old_ red at that. All sorts of dust all over it. Who keeps wine that long?”

Brigitt fiddles with the hem of her apron. “Maybe we can have a lil together, after everyone’s gone to bed?”

Hot Pie shrugs, Brigitt’s eyes go wide- 

“I’ll probably be tired.”

-Brigitt lowers her head. “Oh...alright, then.”

Hot Pie doesn’t understand why she’s all sad. “You can drink it by yourself, you know,” he reminds her.

Her head lowers further. Hot Pie awkwardly fills her the first mug, which she takes and drinks deeply from.

“Oy! Hot Pie!” Beth's face peers down from the cellar’s hatch above the ladder. “You got that wine yet?”

“Why?”

“Some fancy Lord’s here. Tom says we gotta give his men all the Dornish red because he’s rich.” Her blonde head of hair disappears.

“ ‘s not Dornish!” He yells up after her. 

\--

It’s not easy to balance a tray while climbing up a ladder, but between him and Brigitt they make it out alright. Hot Pie’s adjusting his grip and walking out to the sitting area when a big, shadowy figure blocks his path.

He looks up.

“Not again,” he whispers.

The Hound’s face doesn’t change, all angry and mean, as he glances down at the tray in his hands. “What’s that?”

“Wine, it’s supposed to be a Dornish red but it’s not-”

“I don’t care.” He takes one, drinks it in heavy, determined gulps. Sets the empty mug down. Repeats. He does it three more times-

“Hey,” Hot Pie manages, screwing up his courage. “That’s for some Lord-”

The Hound finishes the last mug he’s got. “Who do you think I’m here with, you stupid fuck?”

Hot Pie frowns, mind doing some quick mental maths before… “Gendry? It’s Gendry??”

The Hound says nothing, only moves toward the bar where Jena does not look happy to see him.

Hot Pie moves past him, shoving a couple people out the way, and his face breaks into a big smile when he sees a buzzed head (it doesn’t look that good on him, he thinks again) and a short, pretty girl beside him. “You came back!”

Arry sounds happy when she says, “Hello Hot Pie.”

\--

He grabs three more mugs of red-red from Brigitt, who stares at Gendry with real wide eyes before she stammers out a goodbye. She’s a weird one, all right. 

“How was the wedding?”

Gendry snorts. “No one got killed.”

“I hear that’s good luck at noble weddings,” Hot Pie says, matter-of-fact. “Wish I would’ve known you were coming, I would’ve made some of those firewolves.”

“Direwolves,” Arry corrects.

“Thought it was fire?”

“Why would it be fire?” Gendry asks, annoyed.

“Fire because of the woods.” He pouts, a little. “That makes more sense anyway.” 

Gendry smirks first, and Hot Pie notices when Arry’s starts after. The two of them send each other slow looks, and Hot Pie frowns. 

“Something’s different about you two.”

As one, they turn to face him instead of each other. It’s unsettling. And Hot Pie feels like he did sometimes when they were younger--when they looked at each other over his head or laughed at something he didn’t always get.

“We got good news,” Gendry says, and the Bull doesn’t smile much, but Hot Pie likes him a lot better when he does.

\--

“You want me to _what_?” 

She tilts her head. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

“But if you wanted to…” Gendry scratches the side of his cheek. “We’d get you all set up. You could have your own place--an inn if you wanted. Or something else. I don’t know.” His eyes narrow at Hot Pie, like it’s _his_ fault that Gendry doesn’t know what he’d want. “We don’t have a baker at Storm’s End,” he mumbles, looking uncomfortable.

“Why’d you even need one?”

Arry sighs. “Hot Pie, we want you to come to Storm’s End.”

“But I’ve never even been there,” Hot Pie says, incredulous. First they say they’re getting married--which he’d _already asked_ before and they said they weren’t--then Arry’s leaving to Storm’s End instead of Winterfell, and Gendry’s already there, so he guesses he’s just going home.

“We’re pack,” Gendry says slowly. Arry faces him, looking all wolf-like like she does. 

Hot Pie squints. “That a metaphor or something?”

“Yeah, a little.” Gendry sighs, looking around the inn. The crowd’s starting to thin out, thankfully. “It seems like you’re happy here, though. Just thought…” he clears his throat. “Just thought we’d ask, since we were coming here anyway.”

“I don’t know,” Hot Pie says honestly. But then he shakes his head. “No. I ought to stay here. They’re helpless without me.”

Gendry smiles at him again, although this time it’s smaller and a bit sad. “Sure, Hot Pie. Whatever you want.”

They have a few more old wines between them, and toward the end of the night, Hot Pie shows them to one of those rooms with only one bed.

\--

The next morning he sees them off. 

“Here you go, Arry,” he says, reaching up to hand the firewolves bread, wrapped in muslin, to her from where she sits on her white horse. “Just out the oven.”

Her lip twitches as she takes it, carefully placing it in her saddlebag. “Thanks.”

“You sure he’s gonna make a good husband?” Hot Pie leans closer so Gendry can’t overhear. “You know how he gets.”

Arry shakes her head, and he’s surprised when he hears her laugh a little. “Take care of yourself, Hot Pie.”

“Already told you, Arry.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m a survivor.”

“I know.” 

Gendry rides up. He’s not that much better on a horse than he was the last time Hot Pie saw him. “Guess this is it.”

Hot Pie nods.

“Head down the King’s Road if you change your mind.” His tone sharpens. “But not by yourself.”

“Alright. Don’t fall off your horse.”

“I don’t fall off my horse.”

“Seems like you might.”

Gendry closes his eyes like he used to. Hot Pie’s pretty sure he’s counting to ten. “Goodbye, then.”

“Goodbye.”

They turn, joining the Baratheon bannerman, and Hot Pie watches them leave. It’s never easy for him, watching people leave.

\--

Beth’s screwed up the bread for the third time when Hot Pie scrunches up his nose.

“Shit,” he says, grabbing his worn, leather coat. “Just shit.”

He makes his way to the stable.

\--

He’s an even worse rider than Gendry, and it’s not made any easier by how Blueberry runs. But he tries his best, clutching onto the reins for dear life. About a half hour later, he sees the yellow banners and leans down.

“Okay,” he tells Blueberry, “Don’t make me fall off. Gendry won’t let me hear the end of it.”

Blueberry only brays, then brays again louder when Hot Pie makes her start to ride once more.

\--

He catches up. His entire body’s aching, breaths coming in short and hair plastered down with sweat. Hot Pie’s lucky that Arry and Gendry are riding at the back, so he doesn’t have to show up the Hound or anything with how fast he can go.

Gendry notices him first, his eyes narrowing in confusion. “...Is that a donkey?”

“A mule.” Hot Pie corrects. He finally seems to level out his breathing as he tightens his hands through her reins. “Her name’s Blueberry. We call her Berry, for short.”

“Why not Blue? That’s even shorter.”

Hot Pie squeezes his eyes closed, as though someone has hit him on the back of the head. “Well it’s already Berry.”

There’s a pause, and when he opens his eyes he thinks his friends are happy. Maybe even a little impressed at his riding, if he had to guess.

“Are you coming with us?” Arry asks.

“You got to have good food at your wedding,” he reasons.

“We do,” Arry agrees.

He sends them both a cross stare. “And you’d’ve starved without me, back then.” Hot Pie straightens in his seat. “I probably saved your lives a few times.”

She grins, and Gendry shakes his head. 

“What? I did!” Hot Pie insists. “Gendry tried to boil rocks, that one time.”

“...wasn’t rocks,” he mumbles.

“It was dirt,” Arry corrects.

Hot Pie nods, certain now. “See? You need me around.”

Gendry’s eyes crinkle up on the sides. “Yeah, I think we do.”

They ride forward a bit, before Hot Pie asks the question that’s been weighing on him. “Gendry?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you like cake?”

"It's alright."

\--

They’re on the road for about two hours when Hot Pie asks if they’re there yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> taking about a 2 week fic-writing break <3 we'll be back to the stormlands w/ some Dad!vos pov after this :D


	17. what the wolf drags in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you may or may not know it's now 1. A running joke that I get stuck in airports and 2. That is where I write updates to this fic. Lol so enjoy an update sooner than I told you :'D
> 
> -i know this was supposed to be Dadvos POV, but Gendry took over
> 
> -have some fluff. Just. a fuck ton of fluff this chapter. (I'm lulling you all)
> 
> -I now have a collection of sidestories to this fic posted! First one is Hot Pie inventing pretzels

Davos meets them at the gates. He looks like he's in good health, Gendry thinks, and he tries not to be self-conscious as Davos' gaze goes from the top of Gendry's head to the hooves of his horse. Then his attention goes right, where he repeats the same process to Arya. The right again, and again, and again, until he goes through Brienne, Pod, and the Hound. His eyes stop on the last member of their forward row.

"And who are you?" He asks.

Hot Pie's eyebrows disappear into his hairline. "Me?"

"Aye."

"Hot Pie." A beat. "And Blueberry."

Davos frowns, uncertain. "You named a donkey Hot Pie and Blueberry?"

"I'm a Hot Pie. The mule's just Blueberry."

Davos stares at him for a very long time, before looking back at Gendry. "Did you...get lost, lad?"

Gendry's nose scrunches, not quite a wince. "I can explain."

Davos' attention goes back to the Hound. He raises his eyebrows. Davos raises his eyebrows back. This is the weirdest morning. "I suppose you'll be wanting to stay too, then?"

"I also want ale."

"Why don't we start with that one." Davos sighs, stepping aside so they can pass. "Welcome back to Storm's End, milord." There's a hint of mischief in his next words, though his expression is flat as ever. "I've set aside some nice rooms."

Gendry smiles, sliding off his saddle and embracing Davos like a father.

\--

"Wish there were more to catch you up on," Davos says as they walk the battlements. Arya had stayed behind, helping Ory and Ronard with inventory. "Truth be told, it's been quiet."

"That good or bad?"

Davos' lips press together. "Hard to say for certain." His expression softens. "Though I imagine the Stormlands will be happy to have a Lady once again."

Whatever he's feeling must be written on his face, because Davos chuckles in his usual, dry way. "Leave for a wedding, come back with a bride." There's a knowing smile. "And your statecraft accomplishments, during your time in King's Landing?"

He thinks about all the people he told to fuck off. "Uh."

Davos sighs, then clasps his hand on his shoulder. "Well. You're not dead."

"I'm not dead," Gendry agrees. His eyes look past Davos, facing the interior of the castle.

"Davos?" He asks.

"Yes?"

"Why's there a huge pile of dead deer in the courtyard?"

"Ah," Davos says, stepping back. "Forgot about those."

\--

He's not surprised to see Arya's already there, squatting on her haunches and listening intently to Anne, who he now knows is Roy's wife, as she slowly dresses a deer. As soon as Anne explains something, Arya repeats the motion on her own dead deer. Fuck, there's a lot of dead deer. At least two and ten. Each one with a group of people around it, all working to make use of them.

"Good girl you've got," Davos says, his eyes landing on the same place Gendry's have.

"I know," he says a little softly as Arya starts to skin a small stag. Then he shakes his head, reluctantly looking away. "So these just. Showed up?"

Davos nods, rubbing his chin. "First it was small game--hares and the like. Then a pig or two." His eyes trail around the courtyard that's now serving as an impromptu butchery. "Now deer."

"Is this…" his eyes squint. "A threat?"

"Were it," Davos says carefully, "They're awfully considerate."

Gendry takes in all the smallfolk helping themselves to free game. Then he sighs, putting his hands on his hips and looking up.

"Guess we better put on a feast or something." Because that's what high born did, after all. Feasts or tourneys or starting wars.

"I'll see what we've got for onions," Davos says without a trace of humor.

\--

The first day back at Storm's End slips away from them all: Brienne and Podrick tend to the soldiers' horses, Hot Pie takes an aggressive control of the castle's kitchens, and Davos arranges preparations for the feast that they're having to alleviate the surplus of dead animals, but Davos says is for his betrothal.

Arya prepares game. When she notices him staring for the fourth or fifth time, she offers to show Gendry how to dress them. But he looks into the deer's big, soulful eyes and says the truth: he's more useful at lifting the heavy things.

It doesn't occur to him until he sees the Hound building a quick table for people to sit at, but everyone's made themselves at home.

\--

The feast is for all of Storm's End, and so its big gates stay open. What they're not using tonight will be smoked and given to the villagers. There's no rain, and so they're all outside in the courtyard, the space lit by torches and candles on the tables. They're not bad tables, Gendry admits begrudgingly.

Soon food and ale is being brought out in heaping piles. Arya sits up, reaching to stab a knife through a cut that she drops on Hot Pie's plate, then on Gendry's. They're surrounded on all sides by smallfolk, who are laughing already.

"And _that_ is rye," Hot Pie explains to a pretty girl next to him as he passes her some bread. The girl bites down on her lip when their hands brush and Gendry's pretty sure his eyes are about to roll out of his head.

"He's clueless," he mutters to Arya, pouring ale into her mug from a pitcher.

"No more than you were."

"What you mean?"

Arya sighs, carving a piece off of her meat and biting down on it.

"Hey," he tries again, a little annoyed. "You can't just eat your way out of not answering."

Pointedly, she takes one of Hot Pie's rolls and chews.

He's about to take her plate away when Davos stands. He lifts up his mug. "Let's drink to Gendry and Arya Stark. They're betrothed and doing well enough." When people stare at him, expectant, he adds. "Which is good."

It takes a minute, because no one's quite sure if he's done, but soon people are drinking and cheering. Even the Hound shrugs, which might be the least malevolent thing he's ever done at Gendry.

He slings an arm around Arya's shoulders, kisses the crown on her head.

It all feels right, for once.

\--

It doesn't take long for some musicians to start up. Gendry recognises most of them as tradesmen in the village, and laughs when he hears Ronard attempt to sing a ballad. Pod takes over gently, and once he starts, Gendry's pretty sure half of Storm's End is in love with him.

"I might be in love with him," comes a familiar voice, and Gendry smiles, shifting closer to Arya so Jocie and Willis can sit with them.

"Hello," Arya says, cheeks a little flushed. Davos' typical rule of not getting into cups around smallfolk must be lifted tonight. Or, _Davos_ was too far into his cups to enforce it.

Willis nods, shy. "Milady."

"Arya is fine."

"These are…" Gendry pauses. He doesn't think he can call them friends. He's their Lord, and though that doesn't make a difference to him, he knows it does to them. "Jocie and her husband Willis."

"We're his friends," Jocie says with a confidence that takes Gendry aback. "And I knew there was a woman."

"Jocie…" Willis warns with resignation.

Gendry's ears burn. "What?"

"The sighing, and moping, and pining, and ignoring all those ladies who came through in waves-"

Willis looks as though he might faint. "We weren't talking about it," he says too quickly.

"Hells we weren't. You owe me a stag, husband!"

"We share our property."

"Not even the point."

They stay for another drink before they go to join Ory and his sisters, and as soon as they leave Arya lifts one eyebrow.

"How many ladies?”

"I don’t remember," he mumbles, helping himself to another ale.

\--

"Is that the weaver?" Arya asks, leaning against him as they watch Steffen awkwardly approach a woman around Brienne's age.

Gendry looks at the way Steffen is fiddling with the ends of his sleeves. "Must be."

"He better not read the poem he was working on."

"What poem-?"

There's the loud sound of a slap.

"That one."

\--

He and Hot Pie watch as Roy challenges Arya to an arm-wrestling match. He beats her easily, but his eyes widen when Arya passes the coin he bet over and under the fingers of her free hand.

"How'd you do that?"

She laughs. "Quickly."

Gendry smirks, but then he notices Hot Pie's strange expression. "What is it?"

He shrugs. "Just don't think I've ever heard her do it that loud before."

\--

Later on, and the people of Storm’s End more into their cups, Gendry finds himself being hauled up by the arm.

"Lords ought to dance with their ladies!" He hears someone who sounds like Cedric call out, and he's ready to protest until he realizes the person who's got his arm is Davos.

"Thought Lords didn't stay with smallfolk when they're in their cups," he says archly.

"You only get betrothed once," Davos says, before taking a pause. "Hopefully."

Before Gendry really knows what's happening, he and Arya are pushed out into the dancers. She's a bit drunker than he is, so Gendry's arms go around her waist to steady her and stop them both from toppling over. She looks up at him with a little laugh, and he gives an unsteady smile in return. Soon, he hears Pod start a slower song and Gendry scowls at him from across the courtyard. Pod only grins around lyrics about trees or something.

"I don't remember many dances," Arya confesses, hands going around his neck.

He looks away, face hot. "I've been practicing a few."

Arya's fast enough to avoid her toes getting stepped on, and when he kisses her at the end someone whistles.

\--

That night, Gendry sleeps in his too-soft bed with the yellow canopy above it, the one that was too big for his entire body, but fit alright when Arya’s there.

\--

The next morning, he’s got some time before petitions, and he decides to use it showing her around. She’s already been here, but he still wants her to see it...wants her to _like_ it.

“Your rooms okay?” Gendry asks, maybe a little too carefully.

Arya nods. “They face the bay. I like watching the ships come in from the West.”

“Most of them break apart and sink.”

She considers this. “...good to know.”

Gendry rubs the back of his neck. “Want to see the caves?”

\--

He takes off his boots before rolling his trousers up to his knees. Arya takes note of it and does the same. Shipbreaker Bay is often cold, but it’s nice enough today. The sun filters in through the entrance of the cave, showing the round pillars of stone framing it, all of them having mismatched heights that give the appearance of stairs. The cave’s a light grey in color, moss growing on the sides and ground.

“It’s dark,” he warns.

“That won’t be a problem.”

She’s right--Arya moves faster than he does, despite having never been there. Water from the bay runs into the caves, rising to just above Gendry’s ankles and Arya’s mid-shin. Once he thinks they’re far enough in, he pads around with his fingers to find a stone flat enough to sit on. Arya falls into place next to him, their feet kicking out into the water. The sun’s light ends just a little before where they are, and the noise from the Bay gives way to the near-quiet of water dripping from stone.

“How’d you find this place?” Arya asks after they sit for awhile in comfortable silence.

“Needed somewhere I couldn’t hear the fucking high borns.”

She nods, eyes darting to look up at the cave’s ceiling. Its stone is smooth and glassy--in a different way than dragonglass, thank fuck. He never wants to see that shit again if he can help it.

“It’s nice.”

“Thanks,” he says, like he can take credit for the cave.

Gendry waits a few moments before he speaks again. “I like it here,” he says. “I didn’t at first, but…” he shrugs. “It rains all the time, and when it gets muggy it’s hell, but the storms aren’t all bad. If anything they help with sleeping. And they keep the place from smelling like shit all the time like it did in King’s Landing.”

The water laps at their ankles.

“It reminds me of the canals in Braavos, here,” Arya says.

“That a bad thing?”

“No.” She turns her head toward the mouth of the cave. “Gendry?”

“Yeah?”

Her fingers rest over the back of the hand he has between them. “It’s just rain.”

\--

The first month they’re back goes quickly. Davos asks his permission to appoint Rolland Storm as the castellan of Storm’s End, and he approves it. He likes the idea of a noble’s seat being run by bastards. Then he sets out to find a new Maester, since the one from before Gendry was ever there had died. On Arya’s advice, he asks one of the midwives--Berta--from the village to do it instead. She doesn’t know the scholarly things like a Maester would, but she understands herbs and healing, so she’s already better than what they had.

They help Hot Pie set up his shop, square in the village. Immediately he starts experimenting and at first no one at Storm’s End knows what to do with him or the breads he makes. Until they eat one, and then that problem solves itself. Gendry takes on a few more apprentices at the smithy, now that Arya’s helping him run the holdfast. One is a woman named Meg, who spends too much time at the bakery.

Brienne and the Hound seem to fall into an uneasy coexistence with each other, the former training recruits and the latter yelling at them. Gendry figures something starts to work, because when he watches the soldiers sparring they all last longer. Unnerved, he wonders if this counts as friendship for the Hound. Podrick is just as lost as he is at the suggestion.

Arya is as good at sums as Gendry is, if not better. At petitions, she always knows when someone’s trying to bullshit them. She’s in the village more than he is, learning from Anne about hunting and tanning and from Berta about herbs. At first, Arya tries to help him with his letters, but it always ends up in him screaming, her screaming, or a door slammed shut for an entirely different kind of fight. After the third time (and door), Davos kindly (but firmly) suggests Gendry’s lessons continue with him and Podrick.

Every once in awhile, there’s a dead deer.

\--

At the beginning of the second month, he and Arya are on their hands and knees.

It’s Podrick’s fault, Gendry thinks. Because for one of his lessons, Pod had him copy a manuscript about the Old Gods, then another one about planting trees. Reading through both, Gendry discovered a heart tree could be any tree, at first. When he asked Davos why Storm’s End didn’t have one if that was the case, he learned it was because Stannis burned it down.

And fuck Stannis.

Arya asked Berta to help them figure out the dirt and find a sapling, and on an afternoon they planted the beginning of a beech tree.

Once they finish, Arya leans back, brushing her hands off on her trousers. "It'll probably take thirty years."

"Guess you'd better stay awhile to be safe." He grins down at her, jostling her side with his. "Otherwise you'll make the other trees mad."

"The _trees_ don't get mad, stupid," she mutters, jostling him back hard enough that he falls in the dirt of their new godswood.

\--

They sleep together more nights than not. When they do, she kicks and he snores while trying to kick her back.

\--

Halfway through the second month, there's a raven.

Because there's always a fucking raven.


	18. dark wings, strange words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> itty bitty baby set-up chapter ahead! thank you SO MUCH for all the incredible comments <3 and im sorry im so slow in my replies ;;

Gendry inhales deeply into his pillow, stretching out his limbs. They’re at all sorts of splayed angles and he lifts his head, sleep-drunk, when they don’t connect with anyone. 

“Arry?” He grumbles, pushing himself up a little from his position laying on his stomach. “Arya?”

He blinks, moving all the way up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hand. It’s still dark, but not pitch black, and so he assumes it’s just early. Gendry’s gaze scans the room, and when he doesn’t see her, he sighs and picks up some of the discarded clothing on the floor to put on.

Dag, one of the servants who's about twelve, walks in as Gendry’s shrugging his shirt on.

“Hey, Dag. You seen Arya?”  He asks, rolling the sleeves up to his elbows.

Dag gives him a thumb's up. “Milday left for the forest about an hour ago.”

Gendry nods--it’s not the first time. The past week, she’s been there more and more. The woods aren’t far from the main gates of Storm’s End, but it’s a ride he doesn’t have time to make this morning. 

“Mind telling the kitchen staff to hold some bread aside for when she gets back?”

Dag smiles, all toothy and wide. “Already did!”

Gendry grins, fingers deftly and easily tying up one of his bracers, then the next. “Guess that means I’d better get to work, then.”

“Yeah,” Dag agrees. “Lots of whinging to listen to.”

“Always is.”

“More today. A whole lot of people at the gates this morning.”

“How many’s ‘a whole lot’?”

Dag shrugs, and says in a voice of absolute confidence, “Probably a thousand.”

Gendry closes his eyes. 

“One had a lot of armor and all. Probably a noble.” Before Gendry can stop him, and remind Dag to close the doors over the pit again if he's not going to wait for it to die down, Dag tosses water on the fireplace. 

Smoke billows up and fills the room. They both start coughing, tears streaming down their faces as Dag insists it’s not his fault and Gendry insists it's fine and soon they're both yelling just to yell.

It’s not even dawn yet.

\--

An hour later, he’s still trying to get the smell of smoke out of his nose when Podrick is suddenly by his side in the hallway. “We need to talk.”

“Fuck!” Gendry cries out, head double-taking. 

Pod’s not in his usual armor, just a tunic and trousers, which leads Gendry to think he’s also just woken up. Gendry tries not to resent him too much for looking far better than he feels.

“Sorry,” Pod says. At his tone, Gendry frowns and takes a closer look at him. He seems...distracted.

“What is it?” 

Wordlessly, Pod lifts his hand up from his side. In his palm are two, small scrolls.

Gendry drags a hand down his face. He fucking hates ravens. “Who from?”

“The Queen-”

“Gods’ fucking damned it-”

“-and the Master of Whispers.”

“ _-Bran_?”

Pod nods. “I was as surprised as you.”

Gendry didn’t know much about Arya’s brother. He knew Bran had been important during the Long Night, but wasn't sure why. Only that Theon Greyjoy, Alys Karstark, and a whole bunch of other nobles had died protecting him. That Arya probably would’ve, too, if she hadn’t gotten the Night King first.

...He doesn’t like being reminded of that night.

“Which one’s worse?” Pod hesitates in answering, and so Gendry hisses out a breath between his lower teeth.  “Right. I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Let’s hear from Her Grace first, then.”

Pod unfurls the longer-looking scroll, reads it silently. “She wants you to get someone holding Dragonstone.” His eyes dart up. “The word ‘decree’ is used a few times.”

“So she’s mad?”

“I’d guess so, yeah.”

Gendry rests both his hands on his hips. “And Bran’s?”

Podrick shakes his head. “I can’t make sense of it.”

“What’s it say?” 

He unrolls the parchment, lifting it to be more in-line with his eyes. “ _Hung by the neck, so ends our fury._ ”

“...that’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck, he’s grim.”

“He sent Arya a raven too,” Podrick adds as he takes note of Gendry’s unsettled expression. “Maybe that one means...something…?”

“Gods, I hope so.” He’s going to have to ask her what he’d done to offend her brother. Or if he was just like that. “You told Davos about these ravens yet?”

“No, I was on the way to break my fast and decided to stop at the rookery first.”

Gendry’s eyes dart to one of the narrow windows lining the hall. The sky’s barely getting pink from the sun. “Pod?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think this is a good morning.”

“Probably not, no.”

“Right.” He’s got petitions to get to, then he needs to meet up with representatives from Weeping Town. “Can you tell Davos about them, then? Brienne too. And when Arya gets back, ask if hers makes anymore sense than the one I got?”

Podrick nods. “We can plan to meet mid-day.”

Gendry mentally runs through his schedule, then nods. “So long as the merchants are able to shut up, shouldn’t be a problem.”

There’s the hint of a smile on Pod’s normally taciturn face. “I’ll interrupt with an urgent matter after an hour.”

“I don’t think I pay you enough.”

He grins, repeating his earlier words: “Probably not, no.”

\--

Dag was a little off in his count of one thousand, but it certainly feels that way by the time Gendry’s made it through the petitioners. He does them himself these days, although Arya’s sat in on a few as well and held one by herself when he’d asked. It was undeniably easier having her here, and he thinks people seemed happier. Gendry was, anyway. 

He’s about to make his way toward the receiving chambers where he’s to meet the merchants when-

“You’ve heard from my brother?”

-he stumbles a little bit, looking up at the ceiling in annoyance once he corrects his footing. “I’m about to put a bell on you.”

“It wouldn’t help,” Arya states matter-of-factly. Her clothes spot rainwater droplets and mud stains. It doesn’t take much for him to guess she went to the village after the woods.

Gendry sighs, pulling her in with an arm around her waist and pressing a fast kiss to the top of her head. “Yes, I heard from him. Pod tell you what it was?”

Arya nods. “A code, probably.”

“I hope so. Maybe it’ll tell me who’s going to hold Dragonstone.” 

“Still haven’t decided?”

“Turns out we’re low on Baratheons. Down to just the one, even.”

Arya sits with this. “Why not Davos?”

“I asked, he doesn’t want it. Neither does Brienne. Even asked Rolland, since he used to be castellan there, but he’d just spat off the battlements and walked away.”

“So it needs to go to one of the other Houses.”

“Guess so.” He pulls back, because as much as he’d just like to stay here with her, he’s got merchants to shout at. When he starts walking, she falls into step with him and he makes sure to match his gait to hers. “Anyways, what’d yours say?”

“My raven?”

“Yeah.”

“He wanted to let me know he likes the woods here,” she says quietly, which is a weird fucking thing for Bran to say, since he’s never been to the Stormlands to Gendry’s knowledge. But there’s more to it by the way she frowns.

“And?” He prompts, when he gets tired of waiting.

“And he asked if I remembered the summer I turned seven.” 

Gendry is starting to think he doesn’t care for Bran all that much. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I’m not sure. Other than I think my father was gone during that time.” Arya’s frown deepens, but then it seems like something’s changed--she becomes more thoughtful, less confused. “He left with Jory. Robb went, too. To see the marcher lords.”

“What for?”

“To visit. Talk to them in their own holdfasts.” Arya’s brows knit together. “I remember him saying it was important to extend the same courtesy expected.”

“Makes sense.” Gendry pauses in his step as they stand outside the reception area. “You able to talk later?” He asks, facing her with his back to the closed door.

Arya nods. “What are you doing now?”

“Got to deal with some merchants from Weeping Town.” He scowls. “Pod said he’d come save me in an hour, at least.”

Arya looks at Gendry, then the door. “What type of merchants?”

“Textiles, mostly.”

“I can be done with them in a half hour.”

Gendry’s lips twitch up. “You think?”

Arya raises her brows, as if she can’t believe he dared to ask. He scoffs, pressing down on the iron-wrought handle and pulling open the door. He bows as he holds it, gesturing for her to step inside.

“Well, milady high,” he says. “Don’t let me stop you.”

She squares her shoulders and strides in.

\--

They’re done in about twenty minutes, the discussion drawing to a close after Arya catches the linen merchant in a lie about where the coin for tariffs comes from. They leave quickly after that, looking a little afraid. He loves her.

“Gendry?” She asks as they leave the reception hall.

“Yeah?”

“I think I have an idea.”

“For what?”

“Dragonstone.”

\--

Davos sits at the table, rubbing his chin as he stares down at the map strewn across it. Gendry, Arya, Pod, and Brienne watch his face, looking for any minute shift in its expression. His eyes dart from one point on the map to another. Finally, his chin dips down, eyebrows rising and making little rows of wrinkles form across his forehead. 

“I like it,” he concedes. 

Arya smirks at the statement--which makes Gendry shake his head a little with a smile. 

Davos stands up, bracing his weight on his hands as he leans over the map. “Go down south through Cape Wrath, stop in Mistwood.” His shortened index finger makes a trail over the terrain. “Then go to port, travel by sea to Greenstone. Sail southwest to Wyl, with a stop in Weeping Town. Then north.” He lets out a short hum. “A long progress, aye, but a smart one.” 

Brienne nods. “It’s an excellent idea, Lady Arya. It would do well for Lord Gendry to take inventory of his lands.”

He doesn’t like it being said that way, even if that’s the truth of it. “Idea’s that we go around, talk to some of the marcher lords--especially the ones that haven’t responded to ravens.”

“And find someone who sees Dragonstone as a gift.” Arya walks around until she’s standing next to Davos. She finishes the pattern he’d started. “If we go in a circle starting west, we can stop in all the major settlements and end in Evenfall.” Brienne smiles softly, and Arya smiles back before continuing. “From there, we sail to Dragonstone, do a final inventory, and prepare the household for whoever its new lady or lord will be before returning to Storm’s End.”

“It’d be a long journey,” Davos warns, but Gendry sees the light in his eyes and knows he’s excited by the proposal. “Months. Maybe the better part of a year.”

“But I’d get out,” Gendry says. He gestures over the map. “Actually see it all.”

“You would,” Davos agrees. “An important thing, considering the Stormlands have gone through three Lords in less than a decade.” He clears his throat, rolling back his shoulders. “I’d accompany you, of course. For the sea routes, if nothing else.” 

“As will I,” Brienne states. She turns toward her squire. “Although someone will need to run the guard in my stead.” Pod gives a shallow nod. 

“Rolland will hold Storm’s End well in our absence,” Davos adds with confidence. “I’d trust him with my life. I have, as matter of fact.”

“I trust you. How long will it take to prepare?” Gendry asks, staring at the map with a frown.

“A month, give or take.” Davos looks up, his pale eyes connecting with Gendry’s. “In the meantime, there’s something you ought to take care of.”

“What’s that?” 

Davos’ gaze slides to Arya.

\--

And so Gendry writes a raven by himself for the second time:

 _Jon,_  
_Im shure Aryas writ you already, but we wuld like you to com to the weddin._  
_I dont think i can afforwd evryone, but you and Bran wuld be allright._  
_Gendry_


	19. ours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to what is by far the longest chapter so far :'D
> 
>  **thanks!** to **[aryaofhousesnark](https://aryaofhousesnark.tumblr.com/)** for recommending Celtic wedding vows! I abbreviated them for the fic, but they're totally perfect and I couldn't come up with anything close to that good so much appreciation! 
> 
> i **reference** two drabbles from the fury: the drabble dump. short version: meg/nutmeg is an apprentice to gendry that hot pie is in love with, and the locations pod lists off at the bar are places gendry and arya have had sex :'D
> 
>  **warning** for literally 1-3 sentences of smut. it's so small i don't think im going to do a modified chapter, but it should be pretty clear when it's coming up / where to skip

Gendry pulls a rag out of his pocket, running it down the length of his face. He discarded his doublet a few hours ago, thin undershirt bunched up to the elbows and leather gauntlets protecting his forearms as he works on his gift for Arya.

He supposes it’s a wedding gift, now.

Meg wrinkles her nose from her spot next to him, face covered in soot and dark hair tucked into a scarf on the top of her head. “Ain’t seen nothing like that before.”

Gendry dunks it into water, steam billowing up. “I saw similar in King’s Landing. A Yi Ti smith made them. Taught me how to do it after I taught him how to make mail.”

Her brows join her nose in wrinkling, square features scrunched up to the center of her face. “‘S too light.”

“That’s the point.” After another minute, he pulls it out of the barrel. Gendry grips the handle in reverse, so the rod part goes past his elbow. Then he gives it an experimental swing. The slightly hollowed metal sings with the motion, moving impossibly fast. It’s about the same length and weight as Needle, but had the thickness and balance of a quarterstaff.

“It’d be hard to kill someone with that,” Meg says, sounding unimpressed. But Gendry saw her eyes go wide when he swung it.

“Don’t have to be for killing,” he says with a shrug. He sets the weapon down, and goes about making it a twin. It’d been Sandor’s idea to do two when he asked him about it on the King’s Road.

Meg shakes her head as he works, but he catches her carefully watching how he shapes the mould.

\--

 _Gendry,  
_ _Not everyone has to be there, but two of us will._  
Jon

\--

Podrick’s taken it upon himself to find Stormland traditions for the wedding. Gendry’s already bored to tears. Past boredom, really. Straight on to anger.

“And in the rainwoods of Cape Wrath, villagers typically serve something called a Fool’s Pudding, made of shredded almonds, rice-”

“I think,” Gendry says. “Hot Pie would be interested about this more.”

Pod looks up from the book he’s been pouring over for the last two days. “...I should probably look for something that uses venison instead.”

Yet more deer this week. He's starting to get sick of it, but so long as no one needed to go without meat he would manage. He’d lived off rat and pigeon and worms. At least deer didn’t eat their own shit or anything he didn’t think.

“The western regions have their own wedding dances in the villages,” Pod starts again, a different track.

“Deer don’t eat their own shit, do they?”

“...pardon?”

Gendry scoots his chair back without waiting for an answer. “I don’t care about any of this,” he states flatly. “Do whatever you want.”

Pod eyebrows bunch together. “You don’t care about your wedding?”

“Not about most of it, no.” He pauses. “Well, make sure the tree stays in.”

“You mean the ceremony?”

“Yeah, that part.”

Pod looks both confused and perhaps annoyed, which is an interesting expression on his face. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Gendry gives a quick nod before he moves to leave. “Thanks.”

Pod looks at the piles of vellum and the multiple tomes, before he sighs and shuffles things around. When he finds the list he’s looking for, he scribbles down the only information he suspects he will get.

 **_Groom’s Preferences_ ** _  
_ _Tree._

\--

After he escapes Pod’s discussion on soup, he walks around the castle until he finds Arya. She’s seated at a long table, listening intently to something Berta is discussing. He doesn’t want to interrupt--well, he _does_ , but he won’t--and so he leans against the side of the doorway. If nothing else, this feels like a good place to hide. 

The last two weeks have been nothing but wedding preparations. Food, staff, clothes. It all meant a lot of people talking at him, all wanting answers, all the time. He was tired, truth be told. And as he waits it gets more and more tempting to just grab Arya, have her pick out the right tree, and get it all over with. After awhile, Berta passes by him. She dips her head in greeting, but that’s it--clearly having better things to do. Which is fine with Gendry. He’d kill for better things to do.

Arya’s bent over some parchment, scribbling across it with a quill. He guesses she knows he’s here, so he just goes to sit across from her.

“What’re you working on?”

Arya lets go of a little sigh. “Costs. Berta thought it prudent for us to restock our stores of moon tea and green algae.”

Moon tea made sense enough with a wedding. But… “We want people eating lake slime?”

“It’s a Stormlands cure for hangovers.”

“I’ll stick with eggs.”

She keeps working, and after awhile, Gendry reaches out and grabs her hand. Arya looks up at that, a small smile on her face. 

“Pod’s picking out soup,” he says. 

She nods. “Hot Pie’s got the rest.”

“Got a raven from Jon,” he adds, digging in his pocket and pulling out the little scroll. She snatches it before he can give it to her, and her mouth splits into a wide grin when she reads her brothers are coming.

Gendry leans back, pleased that he thought to invite them.

\--

 _Lord Baratheon,  
_ _Dragonstone is still in need of a Lord.  
_ _Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials. I hope you are a gracious host to our King._  
From the desk of Queen Daenerys Targaryen, First of her Name. 

\--

He wishes he just made himself a good set of armor, but there wasn’t enough time to do it now with everything else going on. If he had _armor,_ this all would’ve been much easier.

But he didn’t, and now he was stuck looking at dozens of outfits that once belonged to Renly Baratheon. 

When Gendry’d taken Storm’s End, there had been affects of both his uncles, even of Robert’s. He’d given anything belonging to Stannis away, but Brienne looked sad when he started to do the same to Renly’s possessions. So he kept them.

All of them. His clothes alone had their own bloody _room._

It's a lot of velvet and silk and fine metals worked into antlers. As he took in more and more shirts that looked like complicated drapes, he silently thanks Brienne for choosing the clothes she did for Jon’s wedding. 

Just like he's thankful she's here now.

“Who needs this many clothes?” He mutters, not wanting to touch any of it. Just by looking, he can tell he’s too big for most of them. 

“Your uncle valued presentation,” Brienne says simply. Gendry doesn’t think she knows she’s doing it, but every once in awhile her eyes will stay on something--a shirt, a vest, a cape--and there’s a flicker of pain on her face. He wonders what she’s seeing in the cloth that hangs limp and lifeless and empty now.

“Stormlands fashion favors leather, fitted doublets and capes for Lords,” Pod offers. 

He’s only had one piece of clothing made specifically for being a Lord, and Gendry’s ears feel hot when he thinks of the tears along its shoulders. Maybe he’d just wear that again.

Agnes, sister to the weaver Gele and a tailor, taps a finger against her chin. “Pick what you like, milord, and I’ll do the rest.”

Not wanting to be here anymore, Gendry just closes his eyes and points. Brienne’s gaze goes to the ceiling in dwindling patience. Pod discretely takes a sip from his water flask that is actually full of table wine.

\--

He’s in a sour mood after yet another day of wedding preparation and petitions. All he wants is a tankard of ale and, if he’s lucky, Arya with their clothes off somewhere. 

What he gets instead is the Hound standing outside of his rooms. He's there long enough to grunt out “Get your shit,” before he strides past him. 

Fuck the Hound. Gendry goes for his room anyway. But there’s a note on the door:

 _Gendry,_ _  
_ _Sandor said he’d help you practice. I’ll meet you there later._  
Arya

His original plans with Arya definitely did _not_ involve the Hound, and so Gendry groans as he presses his forehead against the wood above the parchment.

He feels like he’s about to get hit a lot.

\--

Gendry hasn’t picked up his warhammer to actually _use_ for awhile. He’d carried it from time to time, but it was more to feel secure than  for battle. It fits a bit awkward in his palms, his body adjusting to the familiar yet foreign weight. Almost immediately, he feels different muscles in his arms pull. 

“Better do your worst, Lord Twat,” the Hound says, pinkie digging into his ear. “Because I’m already fucking bored.”

So he does. Gendry’s not a graceful fighter by any stretch of the imagination, but he’s strong and the Hound aggravates him. The Hound dodges his blows, but Gendry catches the slight widening of his eyes when he ducks a swing and the hammer cleaves straight through a wooden dummy, breaking it in half. After that, it gets ugly. Elbows thrown into his sides and back, the flat of the Hound’s blade stinging his limbs. But Gendry does get one good crack in with his fist, and Sandor’s head lolls back as he staggers. 

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, the sound garbled as he tries to staunch the flow of blood. Ha!

“You broke his nose,” Arya says, suddenly at his side and nearly giving him a heart attack.

Bells. He’s getting her _bells._ “It’ll heal.”

The Hound doesn’t bother to say goodbye to either of them, walking toward where the gatehouse which stores healing supplies. 

Gendry feels like if he takes one step he’ll fall over. So he plants the head of the hammer on the ground, leaning against it.

Arya’s hands are folded behind her back. “You haven’t been practicing,” she accuses. 

“Ran out of wights and Lannisters to hit.”

“That’s not an excuse. You should practice.”

He wants to tell her he’s fine, but then realizes his entire body is covered in one huge bruise the shape of the Hound’s blade and he might need her to carry him a bit back to his rooms.

“Not with the Hound again,” he concedes.

Arya lets out a little laugh. “You’re not ready for him, anyway.”

Gendry catches himself smiling at the sound, even if it’s at his expense. And then he remembers what he has squared away on the other side of the training field. His hammer falls unceremoniously to the ground as he grabs her hand instead.

“C’mon.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

He leads her over, then lifts open one of the weapons’ chests. From it, he withdraws the two weapons he made for her earlier that week. They’re wrapped in plain muslin, but he handles it like silk as he pulls it away from them.

“I don’t think this counts as a wedding gift, really,” he clarifies, having thought about it. “Since I was going to make it for you anyway. But…”

Her head tilts, curious about the set of matched, metal rods resting over his palms. They’re a little longer than Gendry’s forearm, with a perpendicular handle sticking out about a third of the way down them. “What are they?”

“The Yi Ti smith called ‘em farmer’s weapons,” Gendry says, a little sheepish. “I know it’s not a sword or anything, but I thought they might be useful.” He picks one up, rotating the rod in an arc in front of him. “They’re meant to go fast instead of hard.”

“Like Needle,” Arya says quietly, understanding.

“Yeah. Figured you can use them for when you don’t have to stab anything.” He shrugs, feeling like his idea is absolutely stupid now that he has to explain it. “Or...for fun.”

Arya sends him a questioning look, to which he nods, and her hands wrap around each of the handles. Gendry feels like he has to explain them, but she seems to have figured it out without his help. Arya moves with her core, stretching out her arms and rotating the miniature staffs. They sing, and Gendry smirks. If nothing else, he knows he made them right.

She stops. “Gendry?”

He meets her gaze. She smiles.“They’re fun.”

Relief floods him as she starts to swing them around again. Then the relief turns into something a little sharper as she breaks one of the gate’s boards in half. When she looks over her shoulder at him, breath a little short with her face flushed, he takes a step closer, turns her body to face him, and kisses her deeply.

“Like them?” He asks, dragging his thumb over her cheek.

She stares up at him with a soft expression before she nods. Then Arya kisses him again and this time she bites down on his lower lip and it rushes straight to his cock.

“I’m a little worn out,” he disclaims.

“Don’t worry,” she says as she hooks the farmer’s weapons onto her belt and teases the laces of his vest. “I’ll be gentle.”

He doesn't believe her at all.

\--

 _My cherished friend,  
_ _As a husband to one wife and father to two (soon to be three) children, I feel it is my sacred duty to impart to you the wisdom I have been granted through experience. Marriage is a wondrous and sometimes trying journey to be sure, but it is most certainly a valued one. My Lady has informed me that you would be able to discern for yourselves the best way to sire heirs, so I will be brief in my advice in this particular process-_  
(1 of 3)

Gendry frowns. Then sees another raven. It seems he’s missing one if there’s supposed to be three. That’s probably alright.

 _(3 of 3)  
_ _and while my niece is certainly a Stark in both appearance and humor, it is important that she experiences the value of our words. No matter in what circumstances, Family should always fly on the highest banner._

 _Your good uncle,_ _  
_ _Edmure Tully of Riverrun_

\--

Three days before his wedding, he’s woken up in the middle of the night by rope being pulled around his wrists. Gendry snaps awake, instantly throwing a shoulder then an elbow at whoever it was that attacked him. There’s a gasping sound, like the air abruptly left someone’s lungs. Gendry shrugs off the ropes, standing and ready to throw a punch at his assailant. 

Pod is doubled over, coughing. Behind him, Hot Pie and Willis look on with wide eyes. Davos just shakes his head.

“The fuck are you doing?” Gendry growls, disoriented but definitely pissed off.

Willis’ brows rise up into his hair. “...It’s a Stormlands tradition to kidnap the groom before the wedding. Take him out for a drink. That kind of thing.”

“Arry said it’d be alright,” Hot Pie says quickly. Which explains why she wasn’t here gutting people like she should be.

Pod wheezes, tears streaming down his face.

“I’m not sorry,” Gendry tells the squire flatly, arms crossed over his chest. 

Davos clears his throat, chin tilted down. “So. Pint, then?”

Pod sinks to the ground on his knees.

Gendry sighs.“Yeah, alright.”

\--

They end up at a tavern on the outside of the village. He’s never been before, but it looks like every other tavern out there. Smells different, though, the air heavy with the brine and salt of the ocean. Fishermen tended to carry it with them, in Gendry’s experience. There’s a whole three of them here, and they look thoroughly disinterested in Gendry’s presence, which is good. He’s not feeling much of his Lordly patience after having been dragged from his bed by rope like some kind of wild bull. 

But Hot Pie buys him an ale, and he’s a little less prickly by the time he sees the bottom of it. After Davos buys him one, then Pod, then Willis, he’s actually having a good time. 

“Alright,” Pod says with flushed cheeks and a spark of mischief Gendry’s not used to seeing in his eyes. “How many?”

He’s looking dead at Gendry in a way that’s a little uncomfortable. “How many what?”

Pod hiccups. “Girls.”

Gendry’s lips part as he gets flustered. “I’m not telling you that!” 

“I’ll start,” Pod says, rocking a little in his seat. “12.”

Twelve? _Podrick_? Gendry squints at him, wondering if Pod’s actually been attractive this whole time. He sings well enough. Maybe that’s it.

“Two,” Willis says.

“Four,” mutters Gendry into his tankard. And, with drunken belligerence: “That’s where it’s _staying_ **_._ **”

Davos sends him an amused glance, before he leans back and folds his hands on his stomach. “Not proper for a man of my age to disclose, I wager.”

Hot Pie’s eyes are glassy as he blinks. “What are we counting?”

Gendry thumps him on the back.

\--

The night at the tavern doesn’t go beyond conversation, perhaps some of it more forthcoming than others. At one point, Hot Pie professes that he’s in love.

“How?” Gendry demands, because such a thing does not seem feasible.

His sigh is so forlorn, he covers his face in his hands. “Nutmeg.”

“Like...for cooking?”

Hot Pie just hides himself further, and mumbles something that Gendry thinks is “Strong.”

At another point, Podrick pulls out a list and starts reading from it:

“Campfire on the King’s Road, hallway of the Red Keep, Godswood, study, library-”

Gendry squints, not sure what’s happening but something tugging on his senses all the same.

“-battlements, forge, stables, larder, undercroft, wine cellar-”

Oh. Oh no. That can’t be…?

“-rookery, gatehouse.”

_It was._

“Training yard,” Davos adds, clearing his throat and reaching for his tankard.

Gendry folds his arms on the table and buries his face into them. “Cave,” he concedes.

\--

The next morning, he’s begrudgingly thankful Arya and Berta made him replenish their lake slime. 

\--

The arrival of the King and Master of Whispers is an understated affair. Well, for Storm’s End, that is. For Gendry, he’s accidentally shoved off his bed the morning of, when Arya climbs over him to see out the window. 

“What the fuck, Arya-” he growls from the wooden floor.

His wife-to-be ignores him, her face brightening and her fingers quickly attempting to tame the hair that’s gotten longer into a braid. 

“Get up stupid,” she says happily as she hops over his prone body. “It’s Jon!”

\--

True to his word, as always, Jon didn’t bring everyone. At twenty soldiers, it’s a small host for the King of the Six Kingdoms and...whatever Bran was aside from Master of Whispers. Jon’s off and meeting Arya with open arms before his horse has even properly stopped. Gendry’s attention turns to the wheelhouse as two soldiers open the door. Bran exits from it, and he frowns. 

“Gendry,” the youngest Stark greets, voice calm and hands folded in his lap.

“Bran,” Gendry returns, and because tact is never something he’s had: “Why the stupid raven?”

He stares at Gendry for a long moment. “You’ll know when it’s time.” His head tilts a little in a way that reminds Gendry of a bird. “Sometimes it’s best to take the long road.”

Gendry’s frown deepens when the words slide into place in his memories. “And you couldn't just tell me now?”

"I wouldn't be here, if not for the raven."

Bran looks up with dark eyes, his stare both knowing and _gone._ It silences the rest of Gendry’s question, and he just watches--wary and unnerved. Because Gendry’s seen magic before in red women and white walkers, and he wants nothing to do with it. But getting angry at Arya’s younger brother is probably not the best way to start off marriage, and so he scowls and bites it back even though he’s got to clench his jaw to do it.

Bran’s gaze moves, looking at Jon and Arya. “Don’t be angry.” His attention turns back to him, words hollow. “It’s going to be a nice wedding.”

\--

Jon might look a little better, Gendry thinks as they sup together. He sits straighter, if nothing else. Maybe that’s what happens when all the people your wife burns are finally out of the streets. 

They talk, and it’s less strained than it was in the capitol. Jon tells them about who’s been elected the Herald (“Old and all vinegar.” Jon sends him a little smile. “You’d like him.”), and the improvements on the water, small as they’ve been. Arya talks for the both of them, explaining their upcoming progress through the Stormlands.

“Good,” Jon says after a moment of consideration. “Dany was getting worried.”

Gendry scoffs. “We’re not doing it for _Dany_.”

Jon has a moment of hesitation before he reaches for his goblet. “Even still.”

When it’s clear that no one wants to continue talking about King’s Landing, Jon looks at Arya fondly, instead. “I can’t believe you’re getting married.”

“Me either.”

Gendry _is_ in the room. “Bran says it’s going to be a nice wedding,” he tells his potatoes.

“It will,” Bran agrees. “In the Godswood.” 

Jon smiles at that, and it ebbs away some of Gendry’s discomfort. “I’m glad.” His eyes go from Gendry to Arya. “And happy for you both. Truly.”

Gendry’s right hand is on the bench beside him. Arya’s left hand brushes it, her pinkie resting over his. It’s such a small thing, but in this moment it matters.

They fall back into talking, more comfortable this time. After they’re done with eating, Arya drags Jon to the training grounds to show him the farmer’s weapons, which makes Gendry’s ego swell. But then it’s just him and Bran, and he’s not sure what to do.

“I can show you around?” He offers.

“I’ve seen it. It was Bran the Builder who made this castle, long ago.”

“...Good on him.”

Bran presses a hand against the stone walls.“But you’ll make it your own. Already have, in some ways.” He closes his eyes, tilting his head up. “Soon, she’ll arrive home as well. As it should be.”

“Who?”

Gendry’s not sure if he imagines it, but he can almost hear something howling.

Eyes still closed, Bran smiles. “The pack survives.”

\--

 _Lord Gendry,  
_ _I imagine you realize what a hastily planned wedding implies between two nobles. If this is the case, congratulations and I look forward to meeting my future niece or nephew._

_I regret missing the wedding, but there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Inquire about my brother’s health for me, I worry if the South agrees with him. Jon, too._

_As for Arya, you’ve done the impossible and made her change her mind. Recognize this as the privilege it is._

_Until we meet again, when I may call you good brother,  
_ _Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell_

\--

The morning of the wedding, he finds her out in the fields. There’s not much else between the cliffside of Storm’s End and the woods that surround it, but he still almost misses her because of the tall grass. Arya’s sitting in it, a range of picked flowers spread before her in a semi-circle, some of them in her hands. He recognizes the purple and white blooms as the kind that grow around here--Berta uses both in teas. 

Gendry walks over, his frame blocking out the sun and his shadow cast over her. “Been looking all over for you,” he says, somewhat relieved to see that she’s not saddling up a horse or anything. She hadn’t come to his room last night, which he expected to be the case with Jon and Bran here, figuring she’d want as much time as possible with them. But when no one had seen her breaking her fast he grew worried. 

Arya blinks, as if realizing herself. There’s a spool of wire in her hands. When she doesn’t say anything, Gendry slides lazily into place beside her on the ground. It’s nice to have it quiet. For them to finally be by themselves after weeks of wedding preparations. Arya must share the thought, because she sags against him, and on reflex he pulls her into his lap. He stretches his legs out in front of him, framing her as she leans back into his chest and he folds his arms around her stomach. 

“What’re you doing all the way out here?”

“It’s stupid.” He feels her back fill with air as she inhales then sighs. “Pod told me about it.”

“About what?”

“Stormlanders…” her hands pick up the circle of wire again. “They make crowns for their weddings.” 

“Out of flowers?”

“No, out of rocks.  _Yes,_ flowers.”

Gendry thinks her heart feels like it’s beating a little loud. And he knows how it is to be nervous and want something to do with your hands. “So you’re making yours?”

“No.” She pivots so she can face him. “I’m making ours.”

His mouth feels dry all of a sudden, his lips part as he tries to find words that could contain this sudden rushing he’s got in his chest at the word 'ours.'

Arya bites down on her lower lip. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

“You made me something too, you idiot.” 

His whole life, Gendry can count on one hand the amount of people who ever gave a shit about him. Somehow Arya’s still one of them, after all they’ve been through. After they’ve both fucked up. After facing death. And it all sinks into him then. That he’s getting married today. That they’re sitting in a gods-damned meadow. That Arya smiles and laughs with him and she’s folding flowers into a circle for him to wear, because of a tradition for people she’s trying to learn. That she chose him--that they chose each other.

“I love you,” he tells her, and will keep telling her, because once he thought it was his last chance to say it.

Arya shifts in his lap, turning to face him. Her hands rest on his chest. “I love you, too."

Gendry closes his eyes, and when he feels Arya’s lips press against his, he returns the sentiment hungrily. Caught up in the moment, in the raw hope resting somewhere in his chest, he doesn’t even notice how they’re getting lost. Arya’s kisses are slow, dragging things. They start on his mouth, then move to his jaw, behind his ear, his neck. He tugs loose her shirt so he can press his own mouth to her collar, then her shoulder. Arya lifts his tunic and he helps her get it off him. After a few moments, he does the same with hers. Soon, it’s just them.

Carefully, he cradles her head and lays her down on the ground. Her hands don’t leave his shoulders.

Gendry lowers himself after her, balancing his weight on his elbows. “I think we might be doing this backwards.”

“That’s because there’s not going to be a bedding later.”

“There’s not?”

Arya draws her knees up, wraps her legs around his hips and crosses her ankles. “No.”

Gendry sinks in, his breath escaping harshly without his permission as he feels her around him--warm and tight and after today he gets to be with her for the rest of his life. “Whatever you say.”

She laughs into his mouth before arching up against him. “Good.”

\--

Hours later, Davos knocks on the threshold to his open door. There’s something heavy hanging over his arm.

Gendry straightens out the doublet he’s wearing. It’s dark grey with a high collar and black, velvet paneling down the center. On the chest is a stag’s head made out of wrought iron. He likes that it’s iron--not gold or silver or dragonglass.

“How bad is it?” He asks Davos, feeling like himself but not at the same time.

“Not at all. Handsome, in fact.” Davos strides forward, and once he’s close enough Gendry wraps his arms around his shoulders. Davos tenses out of surprise, but almost immediately he’s holding him back just as tightly.

When he pulls away, Gendry’s eyes go to his arm. “That it?” He asks, feeling nervous all over again.

“Aye, that’s it.” Davos’ short fingers pull away the cover, revealing a black and gold cloak. “Agnes finished it yesterday.” 

He just stares at it, the careful details in the embroidery. Gendry grins when he catches wolves a few times in the pattern, hiding among the stags. She’d like that.

“Guess I’m getting married after all.” 

Davos delicately passes him the new cloak. “Guess you are, son.”

Gendry swallows, eyes burning a little.

\--

The Godswood of Storm’s End doesn’t have the ambiance of the one in King’s Landing, and nowhere near the one in Winterfell. But once night falls, candles are lit and they make a path no less grand than the one used in Jon’s wedding. It’s Davos who leads the way, taking the place of the groom’s father for the ceremony as it’s arranged by the Old Gods. 

As Gendry follows, he takes in the people there, their faces cast in oranges and yellows. First there’s Willis and Jocie, arms around each others’ waists. Then Hot Pie, already crying like a fucking infant. And Pod, awkwardly offering Hot Pie a handkerchief before sending Gendry a little grin. Brienne is in armor, as is the Hound next to her. Hers is bright and gleaming, the Hound’s probably still has some of Gendry’s blood on it. She smiles with her shoulders back and tears in her eyes. The Hound doesn’t. Instead he just watches, Gendry unable to decipher the expression that crosses Sandor’s face when he sees the cloak Gendry’s holding onto with white-knuckled hands. 

Finally, there’s Bran. Arya’s brother watches him impassively. “It’s good you’ve planted these trees,” he says softly when Gendry gets close enough to hear a whisper. “The Old Ways matter to her, though she doesn’t show it.”

The way things are going, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to get any words at all out tonight, and so he just gives a tight nod. And then he’s suddenly out of ground to walk on, standing before Davos. The beech sapling he and Arya planted a splash of green in the dark field of their new Godswood. 

Gendry can’t move, and he’s grateful when Davos rests his hand between his shoulder blades and directs him to the side. 

“Deep breaths,” Davos instructs quietly, waiting for the rise and fall of Gendry’s chest to even out. “There you go. Good lad.”

His eyes are stinging. Nothing’s even happened yet. Fucking embarrassing. He holds tighter onto the cloak, takes a deep breath, and faces the entrance to the Godswood. 

They don’t have music or anything like that. First, there’s nothing at the end of the pathway but the darkened shadows leading out to the castle. Then, there’s Arya, her arm linked through Jon’s. Spots on her dress glinting as she enters the candle-lit path.

He really can’t breathe then.

The first thing he notices is her hair, which is a stupid thing to notice first because he sees it all the time. It falls past her shoulders in loose curls, and she’s got her flower crown on her head, white blossoms with yellow centers. Gendry has to remember not to lock his knees.

Her dress is dark grey and fitted, the hem of it ending at her knee and the collar stiff and open like his. When she moves, the panels of her skirt move with her, revealing their gold, silk lining as well as the iron-colored breeches and boots Arya’s wearing underneath. As they get closer, Gendry sees that the glinting on her dress is from golden leaves, embroidered at the collar and hems of her dress and patterned into the belt she’s wearing. Around her shoulders is a white and grey cloak and Gendry will have to apologize for touching it with his clammy hands later.

He knows Jon’s with her. That Davos is behind Gendry. That there’s seven other people watching. But they really don’t exist when Arya meets his stare and gives him a small smile. When in her free hand there’s a wreath that matches the one on top of her head. And it’s like that moment is a small but permanent anchor his mind, everything else having to revolve around it. 

Then Davos speaks, and the spell isn’t lifted but he’s got to move forward with it. “Who comes before the Old Gods this night?”

And for the first time since Arya started walking toward him, Gendry actually sees Jon. He seems stuck, too. Like everything’s gone too fast for him. But when he speaks, it’s clear and certain.

“Arya Stark of Winterfell. She comes to the Old Gods for her future husband.” Jon looks at Gendry then, raw vulnerability on his face. “Who joins the marriage?”

He lets go of a long breath, his attention back solely to her. Arya seems far calmer than he is, which isn’t fair, but then he notices that her fingers are digging a little into Jon’s arm, that her grip is tight on her flowers. For some reason, it relaxes him. He’s not alone. Neither of them are alone in it. Not ever again. Wordlessly, he hands his cloak off to Davos, who drapes it over his arm.

Gendry rolls back his shoulders. He’s practiced this dozens of times over the last month, usually to Pod, but now it’s like he’s never heard of _words_ in his life.

 _Don’t you fucking dare say Rivers,_ he warns himself.

“I am Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End. I join the marriage.” He swallows tightly. Arya’s eyes are wide and her lips are a little parted and suddenly he’s back to that night in Winterfell--right after he told her he loved her for the first time. “Who witnesses the marriage?”

“Davos Seaworth of House...Seaworth,” he says behind him, voice loud in the quiet of the Godswood. 

“Jon Stark, King of the Six Kingdoms.” He steps forward when Arya does, and Gendry can see the slight tremble to Jon’s hand when he passes Arya’s hold to his. But Jon doesn’t say anything, only gives Arya’s hand one last squeeze before he moves to the side. She tears up as Jon leaves, but she doesn’t look away from Gendry.

Once Jon’s gone, Arya lifts up the crown she’s made him. Gendry bows down until he feels it rest on his head. Their ceremony is a mixture of the Old Gods and Stormlands traditions. Davos licks his thumb, flipping a spare bit of parchment on which he’s written his notes. 

“Repeat after me, then,” he instructs. “You cannot possess me for I belong to myself.”

He and Arya say the words together, and it’s strange that the most serious part of the ceremony is what gets his breath to start coming in even.

“But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give.”

Gendry brings his free hand to the one Arya has on his arm, rubbing the top of her knuckles with his thumb.

“You cannot command me, for I am a free person.”

Arya leans, her cheek resting against his bicep. He drops the arm she’s holding in favor of wrapping it around her waist. 

“I shall be a shield for your back and you for mine. I pledge to you my living and my dying, each equally in your care.”

Davos nods. “Again, repeat after me: this is my wedding vow to you.”

They do. 

“This is a marriage between equals.”

It is. 

Davos looks him directly in the eye. Gendry holds onto Arya tightly. “Do you, Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End, take this woman?”

The little laugh that escapes him is of pure relief. “I do.”

Davos turns, facing her. “Do you, Arya Stark of Winterfell, take this man?”

She tilts her chin up. “I do.”

Davos grins, before taking a backwards step to the side. In front of them now is the little sapling they’ve planted. The heart tree.

“It still counts,” she reminds him, and he lets out another relieved laugh when she guides them both to kneel before it.

Praying, he recalls. That’s what he’s supposed to be doing now. But he’s never done that before, and so instead he focuses on feeling Arya’s hand in his (both their hands are clammy, so maybe he doesn’t have to apologize after all), on the cold dirt under his knees of the woods they planted together. He listens to their breathing, hers steadier than his but a backbeat all the same. 

At some point, the Gods must see what they’re doing, because Arya stands and he stands with her. Arya turns to face him, and he must get too caught up in staring, because she rolls her eyes and starts to undo her own cloak. That springs him into action, his large, clumsy fingers working on the fasten. It falls off her shoulders like water, and he barely catches the cloak before it hits the ground. The corners of her eyes crinkle up in silent laughter.

Gendry hands Davos the maidencloak, and takes a final breath as the closest thing he has to a father offers him the one in his House colors. _Their_ House colors, now.

Arya collects her hair, pulling it up as Gendry wraps the cloak around her shoulders. As he fastens it, he kisses the top of her head.

Arya meets his eyes, looking over her shoulder.  
He smiles.  
She smiles back.

And they are Lord and Lady Baratheon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of notes because im a nerd im sorry
> 
> -the weapon gendry made for arya is a [tonfa](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tonfa). it's what he's been planning/sketching since chapter uh...5 or 6ish? and what he talked to sandor about in ch. 8. i figure arya would be super bad ass with it/it would line up well with her fighting style
> 
> -i looked up a bunch of medieval germany wedding traditions (stormlands being loosely based on medieval germany). they include having the bachelor kidnapping, the groom wearing a piece of iron for luck (gendry's iron stag), flower crowns, that almond and rice thing gendry rudely didn't care about, and some other things that will show up in the feast/wedding reception equivalent. according to the Internet, cornflower and chamomile flowers are native to germany, so that's what's in the crowns :D
> 
> -green algae is an actual thing to cure hangovers. right on
> 
> -gendry's outfit is based on this [season 1 renly look](https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dL1kROmeUYY/WVvtbItpYrI/AAAAAAAAxHw/2raCQ2WGdpk8dgge5MCx3LwSHRh9wVqnACEwYBhgL/s1600/game-of-thrones-renly-baratheon-argues-with-king-robert-hunting-trip.jpg) but with the [OG gendry popped collar](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/550213279474934881/)
> 
> -arya's dress isn't based off of anything in particular, but the golden silk/leaves is a nod to featherbed. i figured she'd opt for a short dress + breeches combo, like daenerys' blue dress look or tauriel from LOTR (the beauty of a dress with THE IRON PANTS UNDERNEATH IT). dark grey for stark, gold for baratheon <3


	20. interlude: stormlands and starks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short interlude to wrap everything wedding-related up! played around with format-- if it didn't work don't worry im 98% sure it's a one-time thing ;) 
> 
> thanks to peacefaithlove2 and bobthemole on tumblr who made suggestions/comments that i've incorporated into this chapter! (hot pie's storytime and brienne dragging kids to bed)
> 
> i'm no song writer lol but i did my best with the drinking tune :'D
> 
> & THANK YOU as always to you all who comment <3 <3 i'm replying slowly but know i read (and reread) them all <3 !!!

No one remembers that night the same way.

 **beginning.  
**Bran stays behind while the others leave, sitting in the new Godswood. The candles flicker, but the weather is warm and the sky is free from any rain clouds. He’d been right, when he said it was going to be a nice wedding.

Eventually, Jon’s at his side. He never looks like a king, which is why it suits him. Sometimes, though, Bran sees it flicker--crown replaced by furs, pages in the story that wasn’t written. 

“You ready to head to the feast?” Jon asks, his fingers already wrapping around the handles of Bran’s chair. That is how he is, moving and doing when he doesn’t want to be feeling. Arya is much the same way.

“In a moment,” Bran says quietly. “There’s someone I want to see.”

Jon’s grip falls. He looks around the now empty clearing that will become a forest. In his mind, Bran sees it: green shoots crawling through the dirt and brown bark wrapping around it. Sees how it will be ten, twenty, fifty years from now. The Baratheons that will save it from the ashes of the one who razed it.  _Yes,_ he thinks. _This will be good._

“You’re sure?”

Bran’s eyes flicker up to meet Jon’s. “Aren’t I always?”

“I suppose you are.” He clears his throat. “Want me to wait with you?”

“No. I’ll return on my own.”

Jon hesitates, but nods as he claps a hand on Bran’s shoulder. “Alright. Don’t be too long.”

“I won’t.”

Bran doesn’t know how long he sits after that. Minutes, hours. Time’s small movements are harder and harder for him to distinguish. But after awhile, he feels his friend approach. Bran closes his eyes, thin smile on his face.

“Ah,” he greets.

She pads over, laying beside him. Bran slides his fingers through her thick, matted fur. As he does, she lets out a small whimper.

“Don’t worry. She’ll be glad to see you again.”

 

 **feasting.  
**Weddings in the Stormlands aren’t quite the same as they are everywhere else. As the lad and his bride walk into the feast hall, immediately there’s a loud drumming. Stormlanders beat the flats of their fists against the wood of their tables, rowdy laughter ringing out.

“Davos,” Gendry says, looking uncomfortable. “What’s happening?”

“Ah,” Davos replies, “They mean for you to kiss.”

“So they punch tables?”

He lets out a little laugh, having been to many a Stormlands wedding. “Better than punching each other.”

Gendry opens his mouth for another question, but Arya gets there and pulls him down before the words form on his tongue. The crowd cheers, and Gendry tries and fails to look fully annoyed when she lets him go.

“Arya-”

“I’m hungry,” she says levelly. “Let’s go.”

Gendry shoots Davos a happy look before he allows himself to be dragged, and Davos smiles. Soon as they settle, Davos steps onto a nearby bench and grabs a nearby goblet, holding it high.

“To the new Lord and Lady of Storm’s End,” he says, eyes trailing to meet Gendry’s, then Arya’s. He lets the moment settle over him, feels his eyes crinkle and the corners of his lips turn up. They’re a long way from Flea Bottom, and he couldn’t be happier for it. “...I’m thinking you’ll be wanting some ale now?”

The Stormlanders cheer, and almost immediately he hears the sound of casks being broken open. His cup is filled before he even notices a cupbearer passing by. _Stormlanders,_ he thinks fondly.

Before he steps down, Davos looks to Gendry again. Davos smiles once more, raising his brows as he takes a deep, long drink from the cup. Gendry smiles back, and drinks from his own.

Just enough time passes to fill everyone’s glasses before the Stormlanders start drumming their fists again. And Davos can only shake his head. These young ones have quite the night awaiting them. 

Soon, he finds Jon. He sits alone, his bearing implying he prefers it that way. Davos sits beside him anyway. “Been a long time, your Grace,” he greets.

Jon smiles, shaking his head at the title. “Too long. How have you been?”

Davos considers the question. “Busy. Takes work to run a castle, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“All too well.” Jon reaches over and refills Davos’ cup. 

“And you, your Grace?” Davos’ words get a hint of mischief. “Lots of weddings, this time of year.”

Jon’s gaze goes to his sister. Davos takes in his expression and frowns. He clinks his goblet against Jon’s, drawing his attention back. “Little morose for a feast.”

Jon reluctantly turns back. “It just happened so fast.”

Davos nods. “That’s how it goes. They grow up.” Or they don’t. And for a moment Davos thinks of what Matthos’ wedding might have been like. If he’d marry a woman half as serious as he had been. If Marya would cry or laugh. He thinks she would laugh.

And now he’s the one being morose. Davos takes a deep drink. “I have a proposal for you, your Grace.”

“And what’s that?”

“Let’s see if a crown’s improved your tolerance.”

“If it hasn’t?”

“Then we have fun finding out.”

Jon hesitates, then refills his own glass.

 

 **songs.** **  
** An hour or two after the feast, Podrick finds himself sitting at a table, already having a difficult time keeping his chin up afte receiving one too many attentions from a pretty cupbearer. 

Gendry sits across from him, not looking much better. It’s odd, Podrick thinks, for a Lord to avoid the main hall of his own wedding, but with Gendry he supposes it makes sense. Especially now that Arya’s started making her way around the festivities. It’s not quite time for dancing yet, and so the music is more for drinking than anything else. The Stormlanders did love their drink. Pod didn’t mind that about them at all.

“Pod,” Gendry says.

“Pod,” Pod repeats.

“Thanks, I guess.” 

“For what?”

“Setting all this up.” Gendry gestures to their empty table, completely missing all of the other arrangements Pod’s made: the lanterns, the sporting and gaming areas, the spigots of deer for the villagers to come and grab from as they saw fit. 

Pod gives a little smile. “Happy to do it.”

“Why, though?”

He sits with the question before shrugging. “You’re my friends.”

Gendry blinks. He’s still trying to settle out his words when a new song starts playing. One Pod’s heard before. Oh no. He turns to see Ronard leading the charge, and feels bad that the older soldier will probably have to die now.

“ _A dragon mean_  
_was awfully keen_  
_to have a Stormlands stag--_  
_out to kill,_  
_she wanted her fill,_  
_of this poor young Stormlands stag!_

 _She found the buck, angry and mad,_  
_Strong and gruff, a well-muscled lad._  
_For him she set a trap, meant to ensnare,_  
_And so drew the stag, into her lair-”_

Pod goes to stand up, to stop this from happening. It needs to be stopped from happening. 

“Where you going?”

“See if I can change the song.”

Gendry shrugs. “It’s just music.” 

“ _But then a she-wolf,_  
_clever and sly,_ __  
_stared down the dragon,_  
_death in her eye._

_With a lift of her leg,_ __  
_the she-wolf did piss,_ __  
_placing on the stag,_  
_a strange sort of kiss-”_

“Fucking foul,” Gendry mutters, trying to hide his laugh in the mug he drinks from.

 _“The dragon blew fire, smoke, and stirred up the air,_  
_but the wolf stood her ground, accepting her dare_  
_And the stag was froze, put in a trance,_  
_for there was a stirring, deep in his pants-”_

The mug drops back to the table as his eyes go wide. Podrick physically sees the copper drop for Gendry.

 _“After a time, the dragon retreated,_  
_tired and spent, a creature defeated._  
_the she-wolf stalked forward with ease,_  
_and pinned the lad, under the trees._  
_And well pleased beyond all account,_  
_she went and made the stag her mount!”_

Gendry spits out his wine. Pod doesn’t have a moment to react before he’s got his fist in his shirt.

“No one can let Jon hear this.”

Podrick’s eyes trail to Ronard and his friends, then to the entire village they’re singing to. “...I’ll do my best.” He closes his eyes, wincing. “It’s...really popular in the Bronzegate area...”

“Can I declare war on the Bronzegate area?”

“It’s your land.”

“Fuck.” Gendry tilts his head back, blindly groping for his now half-full tankard. “I’m drinking this until I forget about it.”

“That’s the idea,” Pod supplies helpfully, pouring said stag another glass.

“Damned Stormlanders.”

He doesn’t tell him that Arya heard the song for the first time three weeks ago. Or that she found it funny.

 

 **games.** **  
**“C’mon milord, your turn!”  
“Aye, groom’s always got to get tossed!”  
“Can’t have you getting fat in your castle!”

Sandor spits a cork onto the ground, tilting the wine back and swishing it in his mouth. He watches impassively as Lord Twat’s soldiers surround him, pushing him forward into a dirt ring with torches lit around it. Once he stumbles in, swaying a little and cheeks red, they all start cheering and it’s not long before a crowd gathers outside the circle.

Fucking Stormlanders.

Lord Twat shakes loose his shoulders, shrugging off the doublet of his fine little outfit, and carefully hands his flower crown to their stupid baker friend. One of the soldiers, the one that’s almost as big as the twat is, steps into the ring and they face each other. There’s some good-natured laughing as the soldier feints and it makes the twat stumble a bit. 

“A stag on milord!”  
“I’ll take that wager! You’ve got’im Roy!”  
“Go easy on the lad, he’s married now!”

Soon people are passing around tankards, and someone hits a drum. Almost immediately, the pair start wrestling.

“Your Lord’s about to piss himself,” Sandor says, feeling her approach without having to turn.

Arya hops up onto the fence he’s standing behind, feet resting on one of the lower logs. The flowers on her head a bright beacon. “No he’s not.”

There’s a loud chorus of “Ooo” as Lord Twat picks the soldier up and slams him to the ground. Arya turns to him, eyebrows raised. She’s fucking insufferable. Sandor tilts back the wine again. 

“You ever been to a Stormlands wedding?” 

“Once,” he grudgingly admits.

“How many fights?”

“Only needed to stay for one.”

Arya smiles at that, before her attention goes back to the ring. “Sideface!” She calls out.

Lord Twat, hearing her voice, pauses and looks up at where they watch. He lifts his arms in a ‘what now?’ gesture before the soldier tackles him and he goes down. Sandor smirks at that, feeling in better humor. 

“Get him on the right, milord!”  
“Roy’s got weak ankles!”  
“Two stags on milord!”

“He’s hopeless,” she says with affection.

“That’s your problem.”

“Guess it is.”

Wordlessly, Arya extends her hand. Wordlessly, Sandor passes her the flask. She drinks, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. 

“So,” he says, not sure why he’s saying it. But the words come out regardless. “You going to start sewing pretty gowns and singing songs?”

“When you do.”

Sandor snorts. The crowd of Stormlanders start cheering once Lord Twat shoves the big one down again.

“I suppose you can always make yourself a widow,” he says, taking the wine back from her.

“Sandor?” She asks, and it’s the same way she’s said his name before.

He looks down at her, brushy brows furrowing.

Arya looks up. “Do you like it here?”

The cheers get louder. Sandor watches as they lift Lord Twat off the man he was sitting on. Behind them, he sees the crowd pushing forward Pod and Brienne to fight next, the latter shaking her head and pushing forward Steffen instead.

“I’ll leave when I don’t.”

Lord Twat runs up not long after that, his wedding clothes covered in dirt and sweat. He doesn’t seem to realize that Sandor’s there, as he grabs the back of Arya’s head and kisses her hard on the mouth.

Fuck, not again. He’s had enough after catching them in the stables. Twice.

“I won,” Lord Twat says, pressing his forehead to hers and grinning.

“Barely,” she says, grinning back.

Lord Twat rests a hand on her thigh and that’s when Sandor decides to spit on the ground. The boy blinks, turning toward him and taking a step back from Arya.

“Hound?”

“Cunt,” he greets in return. Sandor hands Arya the rest of his skin. “You’ll probably need that more than me.”

And, in a moment of...something, he rests his hand on her shoulder. He’s not sure what to say, and so he doesn’t say anything, but Arya seems to understand because she looks up and he can tell. He gives it a short squeeze then he steps away, facing the boy.

“We could both geld you,” he informs Lord Twat flatly, before he leaves to make his way toward the wrestling circle without another glance at the newly wedded couple.

Once he gets there, he falls naturally into step alongside Brienne. Podrick’s getting hoisted over Steffen’s shoulder like a sack of grain. 

“Who’s next?” Is all he says, tearing out a mug from one of the onlooker’s hands. They look like they’re ready to fight him over it, but stop when they see him scowling down.

Brienne gives a little hum. “Cedric, I believe.”

Roy’s stupid friend. Not as big, but faster. “And against him?”

“No one as of yet.”

Sandor grunts, undoing his sword belt and passing it to her. “I need to hit something.”

Brienne sighs, but takes it from him all the same. “You hurt your leg yesterday in training.”

“You’re not my bloody maid.”

“Thank the Gods.” Brienne steps aside as he moves into the ring. “Sandor?”

“What?”

“Cedric refused to listen to my advice on guarding his left side,” she says calmly. 

Sandor doesn't respond, but once someone hits the drum he ends the match by immediately throwing a fist into Cedric’s ribs.

“Left side, you stupid whore,” he states as Cedric drops with a wheeze.

 

 **stories.  
**“And that’s the time he tried to eat dirt,” Hot Pie says, matter of fact. He passes sweet rolls and stag-heads to those who have gathered around him, mainly children now that the dancing’s started. But there’s a few women too, ones who keep asking him lots of questions and have to slowly pick up things they dropped a lot. He’d tried to find Meg a few times, but she saw the crowd and had stormed off for some reason. Probably busy with blacksmithing things.

A small girl of about six or seven looks up at Hot Pie with wide eyes. “You saved his life?”

“More times than one!” Hot Pie makes a tsk! noise. “Should’ve seen him. Hopeless, couldn’t even stay on a horse.” He leans down. “When we was prisoners at Harrenhal, I had to smuggle in food to the forge, just so he could get up in the morning.” He tilts his chin up, proud. “Gave him the strength to go on.”

“Tell us about the Brotherhood, again,” requests Ellen, a lady who’s been following him for a lot of the evening. 

“When we was outlaws?”

Ellen gives out a breathy sigh. “Yes.”

“Well, I guess there was _one_ day, when I faced down Thoros of Myr and Anguy the Archer on the King’s Road-” he pauses, considering. “Arry and Gendry helped a little, too, I guess.”

“What did they do?” Asks a little boy.

“They told us-”

“Can you believe this shit?” Gendry says, standing behind Arya with his arms around her, both a few feet back from Hot Pie’s story circle.

She leans into his chest. “He believes it.”

“‘Course he does.”

Arya smiles, closing her eyes. “Shut up. I think he’s about to save us from Goldcloaks.”

“-so I was waiting in the bushes, that way I could rescue everyone after they’d all gotten captured-”

Gendry listens on, blinking quickly as if that will help him understand any of this better.

 

 **dancing.  
**It’s been a long night, but far from the longest she’s ever experienced. Brienne rests comfortably to the side, watching as men and women dance in the circles of group dances, then as couples for slower songs. It’s been some time since she’s felt comfortable. 

After the wrestling concluded, she removed her armor in favor of her customary tunic and breeches. Hardly proper for a wedding feast, but those of Storm’s End most certainly had their own idea of proper. Considering the only unstained thing the groom was wearing was his crown of flowers, Brienne imagines she’s doing well. 

Her eyes follow as Arya and the King dance, a smile on her face. If only the Lady Sansa could be here as well. The Stark children deserved such happiness, for their mother’s sake as well as their own.

“Can you come dance with me?”

Brienne doesn’t realize the question is directed toward her until she recognizes Gendry’s voice. She turns, and Gendry is standing there, arms crossed over his chest. There are times he looks so much like Renly it hurts. But then he opens his mouth, and it’s soon to dispel the illusion. Even so, she’s grown fond of the young Lord, despite all his edges.

“I didn’t think you enjoyed dancing,” she says archly.

“I don’t. But I keep getting asked and I don’t like any of them.”

Brienne smiles, her thoughts going back to the first feast he held in the castle. How he’d stormed his way through noble affairs and offended nearly every noble Lady who’d come to seek his hand. Now, of course, she understands why.

“Very well.” She stands, taking his hand in hers. “Let’s see if you’ve improved.”

He hasn’t much. But she dances a few songs with Gendry until she passes him over to his wife. After she does, she finds a place at the table, content to observe until it’s time to retire. She thought to wait for Podrick, seeing as he was clearly deep in his cups, but it seems as though all of his attention has been captured by Agnes, a Storm’s End girl.

It’s Davos who sits next to her. “Handsome couple, aren’t they?”

“They are,” she agrees. They’re a bit clumsy together, but every time a step is missed one of them pauses to laugh. “Happy.”

“Aye. Love matches are a rare thing.” Davos runs his thumb along his chin. “I suspect we won’t get many nights like this for awhile.”

Brienne thinks of the upcoming progress. The Lord and Lady’s instigation at court. The displeasure of the Stormlands nobles about either the bastard or the Targaryen alliance or both. “...no, I think not.”

“Might as well enjoy it then, eh?” Davos stands, straightening his tunic. “If I may, Ser Brienne?”

She lets Davos lead her out to the floor. Her mind goes to another night, another dance. But then Brienne straightens her posture and tells herself not to dwell much on dead men, for her thoughts always come to rest on one.

-

An hour later, she is half-carrying Podrick’s slumped over body out of the hall. He mutters something in his inebriated sleep, while Brienne grits her teeth and makes a vow for him to repair _all_ of her armor in the morning. 

“Just leave him.”

Brienne sighs as she tries to move past Sandor, the latter emptying out one of the pitchers remaining on the tables and very much in the way. “He’s my squire. My responsibility.”

Sandor clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Looks grown enough to me.”

“If you’d _move,_ Sandor.”

He looks at her, Podrick, then scowls. Brienne startles when he grabs Podrick by the back of his gambeson and starts to drag him. “Where?”

She blinks. “East wing.”

He nods. “Make sure the men don’t try a bedding. She’ll gut them. Or the king will.”

“They’d deserve it.”

Sandor grunts, and then Podrick’s body is pulled behind him on the floor as he makes his way out the hall, Podrick's dangling boots the last thing Brienne sees as they round a corner.

True to her word, she glares at any man who looks about to suggest it, her gaze wilting them down to their proper place.

 

 **ending.** **  
** He sees them slip away before the last dance is called. Gendry picks Arya up, holding her under the thighs as she wraps her arms around his neck. Their noses brush as they stare at each other, wilted crowns sliding down with the motion. Jon turns to his glass at that, feeling intrusive. When he looks up, they’re gone. Relief hits him, truth be told. He’d no more wanted a bedding called than a sword through the chest.

And so the wedding seems to be over. For the Lord and Lady, anyways.

Jon closes his eyes, takes a breath, then goes to where Davos, Bran, Brienne, and the others are still celebrating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kicking off the progress next chapter /o/


	21. leaving home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings** this chapter for smut (that includes a blowjob) -- fade-to-black version will be posted soon in The Fury: FTB Edition so keep an eye out for that! 
> 
> \--
> 
> Also, now that I'm getting into #Stormlands politics, some blanket disclaimers for the next like. 10 chapters lol:
> 
> -i'm gonna forget stuff or get information wrong. there's a lot of lore & politics in GOT/ASoIAF and it's been literal years since i've read the books. i'll do my best, but i'm also going to be going off wikipedia pages a lot. i plead creative license for most of the characterizations of Stormlands Lords & Ladies. im also going to be making an OC or two for Noble Houses
> 
> -this fic is kind of a fusion between GOT and ASoIAF (i'd say like 80% show, 20% books). so a lot of the things that happened in the books haven't happened in this story (for example, no Young Griff or Edric Storm plots), that'll affect the political landscape/characterizations/plot
> 
> -also, now's a good time to point out the "character death" tag. it's not going to be arya or gendry, but Stuff's Going to Go Down at some point and there'll be casualties along the way
> 
> \- ilu all! :D let's have some Road Trip

Gendry’s always been a heavy sleeper. Something that shouldn’t be possible, after living the life he’s had. But it’s true all the same--he might’ve slept through the Long Night if Arya hadn’t been there.

So it says something, that the morning after his wedding he wakes up before Arya. Wakes up _because_ of Arya. At first he thinks he’s still drunk, because his head _is_ spinning, and it’s all just. Weird. It’s fucking weird.

Arya is...growling. But not the kind of growling he likes. She lays on her side, arms and legs splayed out toward the wall and all her limbs are _pawing_ into the air. Her top lip curls back from her teeth.

Over the last few weeks, Gendry thought a lot about what married life with Arya would be like. They’d wake up and have sex. Then probably more sex after that. And hopefully, again, they’d-

She wouldn’t pretend to be a dog in her sleep on their first day as a married couple, is what he means. 

Gendry slowly rises using his elbow, blinking against both the sleep-sand in his eyes and the blinding, rising sun coming in through the window that faces the causeway. Once he adjusts, his squinting eyes look down.

...yeah. His wife is definitely pretending to be a dog. What in seven hells.

Gendry jostles her shoulder carefully, not wanting to get bit or anything. 

“Oy.” He jostles her again. “Arry. Wake up.” And, to clarify: “Don’t...be a dog. Anymore.”

“Shut up, stupid.” She _growls_ back, although now it’s the kind he likes. “And get rid of the sun.”

He yawns, rolling onto his back. His other arm’s underneath her and completely numb. “How the fuck am I supposed to get rid of the sun?”

“It doesn’t matter how.”

Gendry laughs, eyes crinkling. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

Arya somehow manages to shove her foot into his hip even though she’s facing the opposite direction.  

“You kick like a mule!” He says, laughing louder. This time, he’s able to shift to the side as her foot tries to get him again. Quickly, he wraps his hand around her ankle and tugs it at the same time he brings his numb arm up. The end result is Arya flopping over his torso rather gracelessly. She glares up at him with pure death.

Gendry smirks. “‘Morning mi-”

“I’ll make myself a widow.”

“-lady.” 

Arya rolls her eyes, but doesn’t move away. Instead, she shifts so their legs tangle up and her arms fold over his chest. She rests her chin on top of them. “What did you mean?”

He cranes his neck down so he can watch her, his big hand engulfing her bare shoulder while his fingers play with a piece of her hair. “‘Bout what?”

“Don’t be a dog?”

Gendry keeps his attention on the strands of brown hair winding around his middle finger. “You were being one in your sleep.” He grins. “Almost barking and everything.”

Arya’s eyes narrow. And he smiles because he likes this--waking up naked, her telling him to get rid of the sun. 

“...I was dreaming,” she admits.

“About?”

“Running.”

“Running from what?”

Arya shakes her head. “From nothing.” 

“Sounds boring.”

“It wasn’t.”

They’ve slept in, he realizes. The light’s golden as it comes in through the window, resting on Arya. She reminds him of a cat right now, content and soaking up the sun. The corner of his lips pull up.

“Morning,” he greets softly.

“Good morning,” she whispers. 

“You look nice.”

“I’m not wearing anything.”

“Yeah.”

Arya sends him a look somewhere between amused and resigned. Gendry’s fingers still when she presses a lazy kiss against the inside of his wrist. Her lips take their time leaving his skin, which starts to give him ideas. The hand that’s not in her hair smooths down her back, stopping on the curve of her ass. Arya doesn’t move, just keeps watching him. He pulls himself into a half-sit, bending down because he wants to kiss her. She moves to kneel between his legs and they meet in the middle. 

He’s feeling lazy about it, both his hands in her hair now. Gendry lightly sucks on her lower lip as he brings his knees up, boxing her in. He leans back every time she tries to deepen it, smirking a little when he can tell she’s annoyed.

“Do it right,” Arya scolds. 

“I don’t want to.”

Her brows furrow and he kisses the spot between them next. There’s a small amount of satisfaction at how she tries, and fails, to keep the frown intact out of spite. When she can’t, Arya swats one of his hands away and then her palm is pressed against his sternum. She pushes, and he lets himself be pushed because that always works out well for him when they’re in bed.

Gendry folds his arms behind his head, and she leans back on her heels. He stares at her chest, happily taking in the sight of her bare tits, but tells himself not to move. Mainly because he’s having too much fun being a shit. Arya shifts a little, and Gendry’s thoughts go back to his very short list of plans for being married. One of her hands rests on the mattress to the side of his head, bracing her weight. He gets a flashback of their first time together at the positioning. How he’d laid back, and she-

“You’re never done, are you?” Arya says as she must feel him start to go hard. 

He’s not able to be smart or anything in this state, so he just says, “No.”

Arya closes the distance between them, kissing him a lot harder than he kissed her. He moves his arms, hands resting on her hips. She bites down on his lip a little, and his grip tightens. When Arya moves to start kissing his jaw, then his neck, her ass brushes against his cock and he lets out a little groan when her tongue traces over his pulse at the same time. At the noise, she sinks her weight back more, and he is undeniably as stiff as a rock now.

“You’re going to kill me,” he informs her.

“You’d deserve it.” And Gendry quickly regrets teasing her when he moves to cup her breast and she grabs his wrist before he can. She meets his eyes and shakes her head. “You didn’t do it right.”

His mouth goes dry and his cock twitches at the statement. “...I don’t think I’m that sorry.”

Arya tilts her head and raises her brows. She doesn’t let go of his wrist, setting it down. Then she lifts her body up. “Don’t move.”

Gendry almost grins, almost says something about doing whatever milady commands, but then Arya goes down and puts his cock in her mouth. 

It’s like the reverse of being doused in cold water, and Gendry knows he must make a stupid sound at it, because he feels Arya’s quiet laugh against him. He’s not able to care about it much when her tongue runs down the length of his shaft and a hand presses firmly down on the left side of his hip, as if to say _stay there._

Which is a fucking struggle when she hollows her cheeks and starts sucking him off in earnest. Her mouth is warm and she moves so slow he knows it’s explicitly to torture him. Gendry tries to move, to do something about the pace, but the hand on his hip stills him. He settles on biting down hard on the inside of his cheek and watching her move, hands sliding into her hair again. After a few minutes, he’s having a hard time controlling any part of his body and his breathing turns into shallow pants.

Gendry’s close, thinking he’s about to come as every muscle in him strains. He mutters out her name and then-

Then she stops and pulls away. 

“You’re fucking evil,” he says with a groan of pure sexual frustration, throwing an arm over his eyes.

Arya laughs and he finds himself smiling at the sound. “Then do something about it.” 

He doesn’t need much more encouragement than that. Gendry shifts out from underneath her, flipping over so he’s behind and she’s laying on her stomach. He kisses her shoulder before he enters her that way, and spends the rest of his morning fucking her into the mattress--his fingers laced with hers as they both grab into the sheets.

\--

It’s a good start to married life, he'd say.

\--

Leaving Storm’s End happens a little bit at a time. The first to go are Jon and Bran. They see them off the morning they depart, Gendry eyeing Bran warily the entire time. Bran only stares back, and somehow that makes it worse. 

“I’m sorry you’re going to King’s Landing,” Gendry settles on, because he’s sorry anyone has to go to King’s Landing. 

“It’s no worse than anywhere else.”

“Yes it is.”

“Not for me.” Something over Gendry’s shoulder catches Bran’s attention, and his next words are quiet. “Keep friends close.”’

Gendry follows his gaze, not seeing anything but Pod and Rolland attempting to sort out some horse feed for the upcoming progress. He honestly has no idea if Bran is some kind of wise mystic or fucking with every single person he knows.

“I wish you well, Gendry Baratheon,” Bran says, drawing Gendry’s attention back. “It will be some time before we see each other again.”

“Never know,” he says. “Felwood’s close enough to King’s Landing.”

Bran looks down, and if Gendry didn’t know any better he’d say he seemed troubled. “Best get ready. You’ve a long journey.”

Gendry nods. He’s not sure what the rules are for whatever Bran is, but he figures extending his arm is a safe enough gesture. Bran stares at it for a moment, before he lifts his and they clasp forearms.

“Until next time, then,” Gendry says.

Bran nods, his arm falling back to his lap. “Next time,” he agrees.

Arya makes her way over to them, Jon not far behind. She wraps her arms around Bran’s shoulders.

“Take care of yourself,” she orders.

One of Bran’s hands come up to rest between her shoulders. “I’ve managed so far.”

Jon meets Gendry’s eyes. “I suppose it’s no use to say you’re welcome to visit the Red Keep.”

Gendry snorts.

A small grin makes its way to Jon’s face. “Probably for the best. But you are, should you want to.”

“How about,” Gendry counter-offers, “You come here when you want. Or need to get away. Kings ought to visit sisters, yeah?”

“And good brothers.”

Gendry’s eyes widen, caught off-guard. “That mean you’ve gotten used to the idea?”

Jon laughs. “It means it’s too late to do otherwise.”

Soon it’s time for goodbyes. Bran is escorted to the wheelhouse. Gendry and Jon clasp arms. Arya and Jon don’t say much to each other, but he kisses her forehead before he mounts his horse.

They stand out on the causeway together, watching the Starks go until they can’t anymore. Then Gendry asks Arya to teach him how to shoot a bow better, and she takes it for the distraction it is.

\--

They’re going to be gone awhile. And so a few nights before they’re set to leave, Gendry makes his way down to Willis and Jocie’s house. Jocie scolds him into eating some stew, and he sits around their hearth with them as they sup. The stew’s pretty good, even though he’s having it under duress.

They keep shooting him strange looks, and finally he just scowls. “What?”

Willis smiles, an awkward and quiet thing. But Willis in general is pretty quiet and awkward. “Jocie’s with child.”

She nods, looking rather pleased with herself. “About two moons now.”

Gendry slaps Willis on the back. It’s probably a little too heavy, since he pitches forward at the motion. He doesn't really know what to say, so he just grins. 

Their conversation turns to other things--places in Storm’s End that need patching up, some of the ships Willis has started working on repairing. How the goat’s doing. Willis gets up to grab Jocie things before she even asks for them, she rests a hand on her lap more often than not, and a strange feeling comes over Gendry at all of it.

\--

“I’m not making you hardtack,” Hot Pie states, literally turning his nose up. “It’s beneath me.” 

“Already got some,” Arya says, grabbing one of the stag-heads he’s got on a tray and tossing it into her mouth. Those things are getting pretty popular around Storm’s End, but they still don’t look like stags. More like little folded arms.

“From who?!”

“Horace,” she says, referring to one of the castle’s cooks.

“Horace's a mummer,” Hot Pie says. Hotly. “Saw him cut lard with water, once. _With my own eyes._ ”

“As opposed to someone else’s eyes, then?” Gendry rolls his, fingers that are grubby from the forge reaching out for the tray as well. Hot Pie swats them.

“Don’t go mucking up my work.” Hot Pie frowns. “Some of us care about the craft.”

Arya grabs a handful and dumps them in front of Gendry. Hot Pie looks at her with betrayal, but she only shrugs. Gendry bites down on one with an audible crunch, brows raised and a smug smirk. 

“Can’t believe you got Horace to make you things and didn’t even ask me,” Hot Pie grumbles.

Gendry’s next words come out around a mouthful of food. “You just said you wouldn’t-”

“ _Still_ would’ve liked to been _asked_.” Hot Pie scrunches his face up. “You sure you’re even able to go on a process?”

“Progress. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’ll probably get lost.”

“No I won’t.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m bloody sure!” 

“Don’t think that’s true.” Hot Pie leans on the counter he’s working behind from, head bent toward Arya’s like they’re conspirators. “You think that’s true?”

“No.” Arya reaches for another stag-head. Hot Pie doesn’t swat _her_ hand, Gendry notices with irritation. “But it’s not up to him. Pod and Davos planned the course.”

“That’s good.” Hot Pie looks at her, then Gendry, and his head lowers a bit, reminding Gendry of kicked dogs. “Too bad I can’t go with you.”

Gendry shrugs. “Could, if you wanted.”

Hot Pie sighs, looking out the window. Gendry doesn’t know why--only thing that window faces is the forge, which is usually too full of steam and smoke to see anything in. “Can’t be on an adventure forever.” 

Gendry’s face screws up into a frown, not sure why the statement bothers him. But it does.

“Anyways,” Hot Pie says, reaching underneath the counter. “I got you these instead.”

He lifts and suddenly there’s two, huge burlap sacks in front of them both. “You’d better not give any away. I’m already in high demand,” he warns.

They’re filled with stag-heads. Arya smiles at them, and Gendry smiles at Arya. 

“We’ll miss you Hot Pie,” she says quietly.

Hot Pie puffs up his chest. “Course you will. I’m the only one that actually feeds you.” His expression goes solemn as he turns to Gendry. “Don’t worry,” he says very seriously. “I’ll be a good Lord for you while you’re gone.”

Gendry chokes on his bread.

\--

The morning they leave is chaos. They’re taking fifty soldiers this time, a modest show of strength, and all of them are preparing their horses and saying goodbye to their loved ones. Roy makes a particularly aggressive show of the latter when he bends Anne down into a dip in the middle of the square, their children running around and screaming their bloody heads off as they play. Ronard, too, as he picks up his fully grown sons into a bear hug, their booted feet lifting off the ground and protests audible. 

As Gendry observes the partings, it hits him how glad he is that Arya’s coming. He doesn’t think he’d be able to leave her for the months they’ll be away. Gendry watches as she talks to the Hound, the pair working to load a cart with foodstuffs for the journey. Admittedly, he looks a little more intently when she bends over to pick up a sack of Horace’s mediocre hardtack. 

“You ready, lad?” 

Gendry turns away reluctantly. Davos leads his horse over to his, hands in the reins. There’s been a quiet air of excitement around him lately, and Gendry knows he’s eager to see his family again. They’ll be stopping in the Seaworth holdings in a few weeks. Podrick walks next to Davos, notably without horse or travel pack. He’d be staying behind to manage the guards of Storm’s End in Brienne and Sandor’s stead. 

“Not my first time travelling,” Gendry says without commitment. Truth be told, he hasn’t cared to think about the long journey much. Other than Bran’s strange comments. Which he doesn’t _want_ to think about.

“First time as a Lord, milord,” Davos corrects pointedly. 

Gendry’s expression goes sour. More behaving, like he had to do at King’s Landing, is the last thing he wants to do. 

“You remember our lessons?” Pod interjects.

“I’m not a moron.” 

“Of course not.” And then Pod asks too innocently: “House Penrose’s words?”

Gendry works his jaw. “...shut up.”

“Set Down Our Deeds.”

“What does that even mean, anyway?” He grumbles. 

“Two white quills on a russet field,” Pod continues.

Gendry glares. Pod smiles.

“I’ll miss you,” he says.

Gendry sighs. “Same. I guess.”

“My Lord,” Podrick states as a goodbye, smile leaving his face slowly.

“Pod.”

He gives a small nod, before heading over to say goodbye to Brienne. 

“He’s either going to rise to the occasion,” Davos observes as Podrick walks away. “Or they’ll mutiny five minutes after we’re over the horizon.”

Gendry sends him a side glance. Davos sends him one back. Then Davos chuckles as Gendry snorts.

“Stag on mutiny.”

“Aye, I’ll take that wager.”

\--

An hour later, and Gendry is mounting his horse. It’s a rusty-colored one that he hasn’t named yet. He’s bad at naming things. Arya rides into step with him, sitting on the same white horse.

“What’d you name that?” He asks, gesturing to it with his chin. 

“My horse?”

“Yeah.”

Arya is suddenly preoccupied with adjusting her gloves. “Argella.”

It's a good name. He’ll have to call his Rusty Horse, he thinks.

They start riding along the causeway that leads from the castle to the main road they’ll be travelling, and Gendry can’t help but notice Arya’s eyes scanning the treeline of the forest that surrounds Storm’s End.

“What is it?” 

Arya frowns. “Feels like I’m forgetting something.” 

Gendry looks at the trees, but for him there’s nothing special about them. “Do we need to go back?”

She’s quiet for a moment. 

“No,” Arya settles on. “It’ll come back to me.”

He watches as Arya shakes off whatever it is that’s troubling her, and she sends him an amused look. “Looking forward to months of nobles?”

“‘Bout as much as my head being cracked open.”

He gets a smile out of her at that. Once again, he’s glad for them being together in this.

-

It hits him as soon as his horse steps off the causeway: he doesn’t want to go.

It’s a strange feeling, leaving home.

\--

Their first stop is less than a day and a half’s ride, but a couple hours in and it starts to piss-pour rain. Thankfully, that’s not an unusual occurrence in the Stormlands, and everyone’s brought boiled leathers to protect themselves and their gear. Still, it slows them down.

Which might be a good thing, based on Brienne’s mood. 

At first, Gendry thought it was just stress from having to wrangle 50 Stormlanders into a procession. Then, he thought it might’ve been about leaving Pod behind. But when she hasn’t stopped scowling, he figures he should probably talk to her. Or something. 

“What’s up your ass?” 

The look Brienne sends him is pure ice. “I’d thank you not to take that tone with me, my Lord.”

“Alright. What’s wrong with you?” He guesses from her expression that one’s not much better, but he doesn’t know how to be more delicate than he already is.

Brienne must recognize this, because she's less hostile when she speaks next. “I am...acquainted, with the Conningtons.”

Gendry nods. “They swore fealty first,” he recalls, House Connington one of the few to immediately accept his claim to Storm’s End.

“They did,” she acknowledges, but her jaw’s still tight and he thinks she still looks like she wants to hit someone.

“So what else?”

“I worry about our reception,” she admits after a moment. “Lord Jon Connington was one of Prince Rhaegar’s largest supporters. He likely accepted your claim because the Queen legitimized you. But he’s yet to return from Essos, and so we have to contend with Ser Ronnet.”

He vaguely recalls Ronnet from the feast he hosted months ago. Bright red hair and an annoying laugh, but that’s all he’s got. “You don’t like him?”

Her jaw clenches tighter. “No.”

“Why not?”

Brienne keeps her attention trained straight ahead. “...I apologize. I won’t let any of my personal misgivings interfere-”

“If you don’t like him, I probably won’t,” he cuts her off. Ronnet did, after all, bend the knee to the Lannisters at one point in the war.

Brienne considers this, his point clearly made. “At the beginning of the War of Five Kings,” she begins carefully. “I met Ser Ronnet in a melee at Bitterbridge.”

“How’d that go?”

“The moment I slammed my shield into his face was one of the greatest in my life.”

He’s not sure what to do with this information, other than find it funny. “Well,” he starts just as carefully. “You can do it again, if you want.”

Her grip relaxes. “Thank you, my Lord.”

\--

Griffin’s Roost isn’t the easiest castle to get to. It rests atop a crag, the road to it narrow and winding. The higher they go, the worse the wind. Gendry’s attention keeps sliding down to the rough waters of Shipbreaker Bay beneath them, feeling his stomach flop with it.

“I told you not to look down,” Arya reminds him as she re-joins Gendry in the middle of the procession. She hands him a skin of water.

He grabs it. “Where else am I supposed to look? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of a fucking mountain.”

“It’s a cliff.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Cliff’s smaller.”

Gendry drinks the water she gave him, but he’s not happy about it. The closer they get to the gates, the higher his irritation goes. Who builds a castle in the middle of a mountain? Above a bay? 

It seems he’s not alone. The Hound is in a foul temper from his place further up in the line, as is Brienne. The only one who seems unphased is Arya, her face that calm mask he doesn’t like. 

Gendry’s first impression of Griffin’s Roost, once he gets passed the stupid mountain, is that it looks weathered. It’s built of white stone, with a few towers. Once they're close enough, he sees the windows are all patterned in red-and-white glass. 

“Here goes nothing,” he mutters, as the gates to the castle come into view. They’re already lowered, their procession no doubt visible from far away. A little further, and they're entering the courtyard, the guards posted eyeing them warily.

Sandor stops his horse first, riding further into the courtyard. Brienne follows him, and with her back to him, Gendry can’t gauge her mood. The soldiers in the front part for him, and soon it’s just Gendry and Arya trotting forward to meet the greeting party.

It’s hard not to notice Ronnet. He’s a big man, with a full red beard that could envy Tormund’s, although it’s better groomed. His arms are crossed over a barrel chest. While Gendry’s approaches, Ronnet’s eyes scan him from head to toe, assessing. Then he does the same thing to Arya, which sets off a flare of irritation in Gendry.

To Ronnet’s right is another man who's about the same age, just as tall but lanky instead of husky. He looks bored. On Ronnet’s left is a woman with the same red hair but a duller shade, her expression pinched. Behind them are several members of the house, all silently evaluating his retinue. Except for one younger man in the back, who has fire-red hair and seems like he wants to spit fire.

Gendry takes a breath, and like he’s practiced, swings off the side of Rusty Horse. Arya does the same next to him, although her movements are far more graceful. Ronard takes the reins of their horses as soon as they dismount, leading the animals away. 

“Ser Ronnet,” Gendry greets. 

“Lord Baratheon,” he returns, bowing. When he straightens, his eyes flicker again to Arya. “My Lady.”

There’s a long pause in which Ronnet looks at Arya expectantly. Whatever he wants her to do, she doesn’t do it, and Ronnet’s lips twitch. Then he clears his throat.

“My brother, Raymund. My sister, Alynne.” They bow and curtsy respectively, both movements stiff and reluctant.

Ronnet’s chest puffs out. “Welcome to Griffin’s Roost, my Lord. What's ours is yours.”

Gendry doesn't believe him for a second. 

But then the gates close, and there's nowhere else to go but forward.


	22. griffin's roost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings!** this chapter for animal death
> 
> oof, it's a big one. hope you enjoy <3 admittedly, ronnet's pretty terrible in this fic. but then again, he's pretty terrible in canon.

He’s not sure if he’ll ever  _like_ the Hound, but now Gendry’s certain he can get used to him. Raymund keeps shooting furtive looks to his side as they sup together, the Hound on his left and trying his best to inhale the quail they’ve been served. Whenever the Hound so much as blinks, Raymund’s entire body winds up, and Gendry thinks if the Hound yelled at him like he yells at everyone, Raymund Connington will go and piss himself. 

“Amused, my Lord?” Davos asks in that level way of his, and Gendry sighs--regretful as he forces his attention back to Ronnet and his sister.

The Conningtons don’t hold a lot of land, so instead of a large feast it’s a small dinner of Gendry’s closest people and the Connington family. Which would be fine, except the Conningtons apparently want to _talk_ during it. 

Davos, seeing that Gendry is going to be of no use, clears his throat. “Quite a view,” he prompts. 

“Yes,” Alynne agrees. She has not looked away from her plate the entire time they’ve been seated. Gendry watches, in a horrified sort of fascination, as she attempts to cut a pea in half before she eats it. “We’re on a crag.”

“Aye. Very...high...” Davos waits a moment, then just sags a little in his seat.

“We call the path leading up to the Roost the Griffin’s Throat,” Ronnet says, pouring himself a liberal amount of ale and not looking much happier than Gendry is to be seated at this table. 

Gendry blinks.“ _Why_?”

Davos kicks him under the table.

Ronnet smiles flatly, the expression looking wrenched in and pointedly not giving Gendry's question an answer. “You must tell us of your travels, my Lord.” His cold, blue eyes dart from him and Davos, to Sandor, then land on Arya. Gendry notices he doesn’t even seem to acknowledge Brienne, who sits stoically on the Hound’s other side and has been holding a knife for a long time. “With such...fascinating companions, I imagine you’ve stories.”

“It rained,” Gendry states. 

“Yes,” Alynne agrees, “That happens often in the Stormlands.”

“...aye,” Davos starts. “Lots of storms. In the Stormlands.” Gendry sees him physically give up, grabbing a pitcher to fill his own cup to the brim.

Ronnet narrows his eyes, sending his sister an annoyed look as he drums his fingers on his knee. Then he takes a long sip of his ale, and sends Gendry an assessing stare. “Perhaps we can speak of more spirited ventures, then? Is it true what they say up in the North? That there was a battle with White Walkers?”

A stillness settles over the entire table. And he’s not surprised when it’s Arya who speaks first.

“Why wouldn’t it be true?” She asks levelly, grey eyes fixed on Ronnet.

He smiles at her like people smile at children, and Gendry’s jaw clenches down. “Oh, us Southron folk enjoy our stories, often subject to fancy. I merely assumed that was true for the North. Is that not so?” 

“The North didn't have time for _fancy_ when we were too busy dying to protect this side of the Wall." 

"You mean to say you fought, Lady Arya?"

Gendry can't even believe he's asking that. And he goes to say as much before Arya speaks first.

"Many women fought, Ser Ronnet. Most never held a sword before." Her fingers lay flat on the table. "They were better then the knights in the South who didn't fight at all."

The corner of Ronnet’s lip twitches up and Gendry knows this type of man. The kind who pokes and prods to elicit responses he doesn’t want, then blames them. He doesn’t like how Ronnet looks at Arya, like she’s in a cage he wants to rattle, or something he wants to knock down. 

“You’ll have to forgive me, my Lady. We’ve only heard whispers of the Long Night in the Stormlands. Perhaps you can enlighten us? Brave warrior that you were." Ronnet runs his thumb and forefinger down his beard. "Do you have any heroic achievements you can share? Certainly it must have been quite the thrillingbattle.”

Arya’s expression goes flat and Gendry swears if this fucker asks about the Great Burning next he’s going to shove the bread knife through his eye-

“It was, Ronnet. One for the songs.” Brienne’s voice is clear and Ronnet sneers at the sound of it, but doesn’t turn to face her. She appears unphased, cutting into a piece of potato. “A shame you were of no use to it.”

Ronnet stops stroking his beard.  _He hates her,_ Gendry realizes with discomfort.  _He hates Brienne._

"Yes, well. The Stormlands needed someone protecting them."

"They did," Arya says coldly. "In the North."

Ronnet watches her, and in the candlelight of the table his eyes look orange. "Lady Arya, if you-"

“The peas are quite tender,” Alynne comments, absently in a way that makes Gendry question if she knows she's interrupted.

“That they are,” Davos agrees quickly, having not touched any of his, but seeing a way out of the conversation. "Are all peas like this at Griffin's Roost?"

Alynne brightens. "Oh, no, we actually get them from-"

The rest of the evening is spent listening to Davos and Alynne exchange pleasantries about gardens. Until it’s broken by the Hound letting out a short bark at Raymund, who jumps visibly in his seat.

\--

“The fuck’s his problem?” Gendry grunts as he undoes the laces on one of his gauntlets, then the other. The leather cuffs slide to the floor and he doesn’t feel assed enough to pick them up. 

On the other side of the room they’re sharing (much to the confusion of the serving woman), Arya undoes the ties of her vest, shrugging the cloth off of her with the same amount of care. 

“Your father took land from his family,” she says simply. 

A lot of it, according to Davos. Nine-tenths, or something along those lines, for not coming to Robert Baratheon’s banner soon enough during the Rebellion. Gendry thought Robert was a fuck-off, but he doesn’t think he was wrong in that one. But as his bastard son, Gendry knows to not even expect that level of loyalty from the Conningtons. 

“Can’t help but feel like he’s waiting to stab me.”

“He is waiting to stab you,” she agrees. Her hands still as she unties her trousers. “And he has a problem with women.”

“Noticed that one,” he says darkly. He looks over his shoulder. “You alright?”

“He’s nothing.” Her eyes narrow. “But I want to know about him and Brienne.”

“Guess she smashed his head in during a melee.”

Arya smiles, but the concern in her gaze doesn’t go away. “No. It’s more than that.” 

Gendry nods, attention back on disrobing. He hears her slide into their bed, and follows after dropping his trousers. Immediately, he draws her to him, arm around her waist and chin resting on top of her head. They stay like that for a moment, decompressing, as he flexes his fingers against her bare shoulder.

“Want to have really loud sex?” Gendry suggests.

Arya snorts, a quiet thing against his chest.

\--

They’re to stay with every hosting Lord for at least a sennight on their progress. While the overlying reason was for Gendry to acquaint himself with his new lands and better meet his marcher Lords, the main goal is still to find a suitable host for Dragonstone. And, while they were here, get the measure of the nobles. 

“Don’t mention Dragonstone to any of them,” Davos had warned. “It will change behaviors.”

So he wouldn’t. Gendry’s reasonably sure it's not going to the Conningtons, anyways. 

The first day was spent in rest--making sure his accompanying soldiers were well-supplied and housed, making introductions, touring the grounds, and setting an itinerary for the rest of Gendry’s stay. Unlike other territories, the Conningtons did not hear petitions due to their now lowered status of landed knights, and so it made most of Gendry’s work easier for him.

The next day is spent in reviewing finances--coffers and taxes. Ronnet sends him a strange look as he makes for the ledgers.

“Does your wife not do this for you?”

Gendry shrugs. “She checks my work when I’m done.”

“You do sums...so your wife can approve them?” 

He closes his eyes. Then meets Ronnet’s as servants begin to deposit worn, leather books onto the desk between them. “I like numbers and she’s got other things to do. Anything else?”

“Other things to do,” Ronnet echoes in disbelief. Gendry just keeps his hard stare on him, and eventually it wilts away whatever he’s about to say next. Instead, he rolls his shoulders back. “I will leave you to your work, then. And will see you on our hunt tomorrow.”

Gendry’s brows furrow. “What hunt?”

“My brother and I have organized a welcoming party for you. Ser Davos agreed it would be an appealing way to introduce you to our lands.”

Davos was a traitor.

“Right.” Except he’s useless with a bow and spear and he hates hunting. “Maybe you should ask Arya, instead? She’s been working with a tanner back at Storm’s End and’s a good shot.”

Ronnet starts to laugh, but Gendry returns his hard stare to him and it snuffs out. Gods, he’s a right prick.

“Unfortunately,” Ronnet begins, not sounding very unfortunate about it. “Lady Arya has already agreed to spend tomorrow in the company of my sister.”

Pea lady? “Doing what?”

Ronnet shrugs. “I rarely concern myself with the affairs of women’s work.” 

From what he’s been hearing, Gendry doesn’t think he concerns himself with most of the work. “I’m going to look at these books now.”

Ronnet blinks, taken aback by the curtness in Gendry’s tone, but then inclines his head. “The servants will address any needs you may have, milord.”

It’s not until Ronnet’s gone and Gendry’s halfway through a column of sums that his thoughts catch the use of “milord” instead of “My Lord.” 

\--

The shot flies completely past the target, collides with a stone wall, then clatters impotently to the ground. He, Brienne, and Arya stare at the fallen arrow for several moments.

“We need to practice more,” Arya says flatly.

“Perhaps it’s best you are there as...moral support,” Brienne suggests.

Gendry throws his bow on the ground. “Don’t know why I’m going on this stupid thing anyway.” He meets Arya’s gaze. “ _You_ should be going.”

“It’s not about being good. If I’m there he won’t talk,” she says with a small shrug. “We need him to talk.” 

“This is bullshit.”

“Be that as it may,” Brienne glances down at the bow, and Gendry begrudgingly picks it up. “We’re not leaving until you hit the target at least thrice.”

They’re there for another hour. 

\--

The hunt’s supposed to last two days. Two days of Gendry, Ronnet, Raymund, the fucking Hound, and a younger man named Ronald Storm. One look at him, and Gendry knows he's Ronnet’s son. He’s also the one who was ready to fight the moment Gendry passed the gates to Griffin’s Roost. 

“You betrayed me,” he tells Davos seriously as he leads Rusty Horse to where the hunting party gathers. “And you’re not even coming.”

Davos’ brows rise as he looks down and hooks his thumbs into the loops of his pants. “Ah, I’m at too ripe an age for such things.” 

“You rode into battle a year ago!” 

“And now I’m a year older.” Davos’ face is neutral as ever, but Gendry can’t help but feel like he’s laughing at him. “Sandor will be good company in my stead.” 

“You want me dead in a ditch.”

Davos breaks at that, a dry laugh escaping. “You’ve got to make an effort, Gendry, if you’re wanting it in return.”

“Hunting, though?”

“It’s a good hobby. Very Lordly."

“Hmph.”

They get close enough for Gendry to take in the group assembling before them. Raymund keeps running a hand over his thinning hair and squirming like a rabbit about to be snatched up by a hawk. Ronald glares at Gendry over the saddle he’s preparing. Sandor’s using a knife to get something out from underneath his nails. And Ronnet looks as refreshed as a newborn babe, red hair glinting in the sun. 

He scowls. Rusty Horse lets out a snotty grunt. 

Arya walks over, dressed in a simple tunic and breeches. He’s mad all over again that she’s not coming with. He _likes_ her.

“Don’t shoot your bow unless you have to. Or they’ll know you’re bad.” She commands. 

It’s not the most romantic send-off he’s ever had. “Don’t stab anyone important while I’m gone.” 

“You’re taking all the important people with you.” 

His shoulders sag at the reminder. Gendry drops the reins he’s holding in his left hand to lean down and cup her cheek instead. "Make sure to cut your peas in half. That’s how they do it around here.”

Arya smirks, tilting her chin up to kiss him softly. He kisses her back until Davos gives a little cough.

“See you soon, milady.”

She rolls her eyes, packing every ounce of sarcasm in all the Stormlands into two syllables: “My lord.”

As they leave by way of the Griffin’s Throat, Gendry watches her as he rides off. To the point where the Hound kicks him, because he starts leading Rusty Horse off the pathway. 

\--

Hunting is boring _._ For the first three hours of it, Gendry sits on Rusty Horse and scowls at anything that moves in the trees. Which isn’t much, otherwise they’d get to go back. So he scowls at anything that doesn’t move, too. 

It's all only made worse by the fact that Raymund, looking between Sandor and Gendry, has decided Gendry to be the friendlier option. 

“You grew up in King’s Landing, my Lord?”

There’s multiple ways this line of questioning could go, and Gendry doesn’t think he’ll care for any of them. “Yeah.”

“My second cousin Rodolph has a residence there. Do you know him?”

“No.” And, with dwindling patience: “It’s a big city.”

“Oh.” A long pause. “Have you met the Dragon Queen, then?”

Gendry’s teeth grind a bit. “Yeah.”

“They say she’s quite a beauty.”

He thinks of charred streets and a dragonglass crown. “What’re we even hunting for again?”

“Boar,” Ronald Storm interrupts. He rides to his uncle’s side, and is already stocky like his father--Gendry’d put him around his own age, when he first left King’s Landing. “King Robert died on a boar hunt, you know.”

Gendry swats at and misses the little bugs that keep biting him. He hates bugs. He hates this place. He’s already starting to hate Raymund. “So?”

Ronald glares. And Gendry doesn’t care for any games some pampered little shit wants to play with him. He meets the teenager’s eyes, raising his brows. “Something’s going to happen to me in these woods, that what you’re saying?”

Raymund sucks in a breath between his lower teeth. “ _Ronald_ -”

Ronald’s gone pale, but Gendry sees the stupid defiance in his eyes. He’d had it in his own, once. And it occurs to him that Ronald probably doesn’t see him as anything but a big Lord come down from up high to throw his weight around. He keeps Ronald’s gaze until the teen looks away.

“Thought so,” Gendry says. “Listen, I don’t give a shit about what happens here so long as it doesn’t fuck up the rest of the Stormlands or fuck over the smallfolk. So either pick a proper fight, and we’ll have one, or put all that piss and vinegar to use somewhere else. Yeah?”

Ronald’s eyes go wide. Raymund looks like he might faint. 

Gendry just waits. 

Ronald frowns at the ground. “...yes, my Lord.”

“Good.” He turns to Raymund, trying and failing to swat some bugs out of his face again. “When we get this boar, do we go back?”

“Usually, my Lord.”

“Alright.” He faces Ronald. “You like hunting?”

“Yes.”

“Good, go get one then. I’ll give you three stags if you can do it before nightfall.”

Ronald’s face scrunches in disbelief. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

The teen sends him another skeptical look, but then he snaps his reins and Gendry thinks there’s now two people really motivated for this hunt to end.

“I apologize for my nephew,” Raymund says carefully. “He is young, and meant no offense.”

Gendry lets out a low sigh of annoyance. “Sure he did.” He watches Raymund. “Wonder what made him think it was needed?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, pressing his heels in. And Rusty Horse trots after Ronald.

\--

It’s not a boar they kill that day. 

Gendry’s riding as close to the Hound as he can, knowing Raymund will leave him alone if he is. The Hound scoffs once he realizes.

“Afraid of the painted noble, are you?”

“Shut up.”

And Gendry’s shocked, truly shocked, when the Hound just tosses a skin of wine at him. He fumbles, barely managing to recover it before it hits the ground.

The Hound rolls his eyes, and Gendry sees the syllable for ‘fuck’ on his lips before there’s a sharp, pierced yelp that echoes around them. They both frown, and Gendry presses Rusty Horse up the line, to where Ronnet’s leading the party. 

He gets there just in time to see Ronnet reloading his crossbow. Gendry follows his line of sight and glares when it ends on a dead wolf lying in the middle of the path, bolt through the neck. Beside it, a pup bares its teeth, standing in front of what must be its dead mother. It seems to stare straight at him, yellow eyes wide and scared. 

“The hells you doing?” He demands, when Ronnet goes to aim at the little one.

“We’ve a wolf problem lately,” is all he says, lifting the bow up so it’s horizontal to his chest.

“It’s not bothering anyone,” Gendry contests. “Put that shit away-”

Ronnet flexes a finger, and a small whimper fills the air. Gendry doesn’t look down to where he knows the little one fell, his fists clenching and expression darkening.

“For your protection, milord,” Ronnet says smoothly, hooking the crossbow back on his saddle.

“My Lord,” Gendry corrects through grit teeth.

“My apologies, my Lord.” Ronnet almost sounds sincere. “I did not realize you share the same sentimentality as your Lady toward wild creatures.”

Gendry’s not sure what he’s going to do, exactly, but he grabs the rein to spur Rusty Horse forward. He’s only stopped by the Hound drawing his charger in front of him, solemn expression on his face. 

“Get out my way,” he mutters.

“Whatever you’re going to do? Don’t.” Sandor’s eyes flicker to Ronnet, who sits atop his horse smugly. “Now’s not the time. Not over some fucking dogs.”

 _They’re not dogs,_ he almost protests, then wonders why he feels so strongly about it. “He’s insulting Arya,” he settles on. Gendry’s not sure how, but he knows he is. 

“And I’ll make him spit teeth for it,” Sandor agrees. “But not here, and not now, you dumb twat.”

A moment stretches, eventually Ronnet calls out to his family members and they press on. Gendry sits, seething, as the Hound only waits.

“...how many teeth?” He settles on.

“Enough so he can’t fucking smirk anymore.”

Gendry considers. Then picks up his reins again, anger not dissipating. “Deal.”

\--

Ronald ends up spearing a boar early the next morning. Even though it doesn’t count for the wager, Gendry still gives him the three stags. Ronnet watches the exchange, and as soon as Gendry’s out of earshot, he sees them speaking harsh words in low tones to each other, Ronnet getting red-faced. He doesn’t care. He just wants to get out of these fucking woods.

Servants greet them, bowing quickly before going to take care of the game. Gendry slides off Rusty Horse, and when he finally sees Arya he lets loose the loudest snort he thinks he’s ever made.

Arya looks up at him with her arms folded over her stomach, resigned. She’s wearing some ridiculous red and white dress made out of velvet. “Alynne made it for me,” is all she offers.

Already, he feels some of his sour mood lift. “You look like a checkerboard.” His eyes scan the rest of her, noting that the dress is severely over-sized but held back by a few, strategic stitches. “Why’s it so large?”

Gendry doesn’t think it’s his imagination that Arya’s cheeks look a little pinker. “She said she let out the stitches for me when she heard about the wedding.”

His brows scrunch together. “Weddings make you bigger or something?” 

Arya bites down on her lip. “No, idiot.” Then, clearly not wanting to continue the conversation: “How was it?”

Gendry can’t say what he wants to say in such a busy courtyard, so he only shakes his head. A good thing, too, as Ronnet approaches less than a moment later.

“Lady Arya.”

“Ser Ronnet.”

Ronnet waits again for something that doesn’t happen, then he bows slightly before her. “You look lovely in a proper gown, my Lady.”

He’s so full of shit.

“Just as lovely as you,” Arya returns seamlessly. Gendry glances at her with a grin.

Ronnet gives a little smile without warmth. “I remember you’ve a fascination with swordplay. My men and I will be training tomorrow, should you wish to watch with my sister.”

“Will you be fighting, Ser Ronnet?” And Gendry doesn’t know what to make of the sudden, sweet tone Arya is using. He only knows it means danger.

Ronnet does not seem to know the same thing, because he straightens his posture and gives a more honest smile at the question. “If it would be of interest to you?”

“It would.”

He looks pleased by the statement, which makes Gendry want to deck him. “Then I will be there, my Lady.”

Arya smiles, and does the last thing Gendry would ever expect her to do when she raises her hand. Ronnet seems similarly surprised, but he presses his lips to her knuckles and Gendry _really_ wants to deck him. 

“Until tomorrow, Ser Ronnet.”

He makes a show of slowly releasing her hand. “Lady Arya.”

Together, they watch his back as he retreats to the castle.

“What the hell was that about?” Gendry mumbles.

Arya’s grin is slow and satisfied. “Brienne’s training with his soldiers tomorrow.”

“...does he know?”

“No.”

Gendry loves his wife.

\--

“He shot a wolf,” he tells her that night, fingers playing in her hair again. “Then its little one.”

Arya’s reply unsettles him, soft and sad. “I know.”

-

That night, she whimpers in her sleep.

\--

“You are his liege Lord,” Davos says, his demeanor the same as a man trying to save a sinking ship with a bucket. “You _cannot_ belittle him in front of his own men.”

Gendry rolls his shoulders as he tugs down on the edge of his leather gauntlet, pulling it snug to his wrist. “Don’t know why you think I’d do that.”

Davos sends him a knowing look. “Jon Connington already bears hatred for you based on your father’s blood. Marrying a Stark-”

Gendry glares, but Davos continues.

“-likely won’t abet it. If you’ve any hope of maintaining friendship with the Conningtons, it needs to be with Ronnet.”

“He’s a prick.”

“You’ve met many nobles who aren’t, then?”

“Maybe we need some new nobles.”

Davos sighs. “For my sake, _t_ _ry_.”

Gendry wars with himself at that. Finally, he frowns. “I’m not going to stop Brienne from fighting him if she wants.”

“That’s fine.”

“And I might laugh if he gets hit.”

“Gendry.”

“Smile, then.” Gendry compromises. 

Davos weighs this. “Good enough.”

\--

Ronnet, the shit weasel, takes one look at the training yard and decides he doesn’t want to fight. He claims exhaustion from the hunt, but stares where Brienne is tying up her armor. Gendry doesn’t see how putting bolts into crying animals could be exhausting, and almost says as much, before he catches Davos’ stern expression.

“Perhaps some sport?” Ronnet suggests as he stands beside Gendry outside the training grounds’ gate. “My men against yours?”

“If they’re wanting to.” But he already knows they all are. He also knows they’re going to win.

The morning passes in a series of sparring marches. Roy alone takes out seven of Ronnet’s, something that makes the man’s mood darken. Arya comes to join them about midway through, hopping on the fence to sit next to Gendry. She’s in her regular training clothes, sweat making the fabric of her shirt stick to her. Gendry positions himself so Ronnet doesn’t have a direct line of sight.

“Training with the Hound?” He guesses. 

Arya nods, then leans forward to look past him. “Are you up soon, Ser Ronnet?”

Sure enough, the shit’s eyes dart to her chest before her face and Gendry might actually have to kill him. “I'm not fighting today, my Lady.”

“Before we leave, then?”

Ronnet narrows his eyes, and maybe he’s not _entirely_ stupid. “...should the circumstances permit.” 

“I hope they do.”

Ronnet gives a hum, and his eyes trail after Arya when she leans back to her position on the fence. 

“He doesn’t want to fight Brienne,” she concludes in a lower voice. “Too bad.”

“Already knows she’ll win, I guess.”

“Coward.”

“No argument from me.” 

They watch a few spars, and Gendry’s arm presses against hers when he hunches over the fence, elbows resting on the top beam. “C’mon Roy!” He shouts out when it looks like the hulking man is tiring during his eighth match.

Roy seems to get some energy at that, bringing his wooden sword down, hard, onto his opponent’s shoulder. It cracks, and Roy’s onto the next fight. Against Ronald Storm. The boy looks charged up, ready to fight and win. Roy, meanwhile, looks tired. The older man takes one look at Ronald, sighs, and taps out. The men cheer for him, several clapping Roy on the back and shoulders after eight consecutive victories. Cedric steps into the circle next, and Gendry already knows he’s going to triumph--he’s got the best technique of the soldiers under his command aside from Brienne, and he's fast to boot.

Ronald is fighting mad, as Tormund once described himself. He’s a graceless mess of thrown limbs and charging strength. Ronnet leans forward in his seat at the match, but promptly loses interest when it’s clear Ronald’s not going to be the victor. It's confirmed when Cedric slams his hilt into his gut and he goes down. Ronald looks up to the fence, sees his father not watching, then throws his sword on the ground and storms off at the defeat. 

Arya tilts her head, thinking, before she hops off the fence. “I’ll see you later,” she states.

“What? Why?”

“I’m going to talk to Ronald.”

 _"Why_?” 

She doesn’t respond, just squeezes his hand and she’s off to the side yard where the youngest Connington’s disappeared. Gendry doesn’t even try to understand her reasoning, and is about to just follow after her when Ronnet speaks.

“You’re quite the tolerant husband, Lord Baratheon.”

Gendry tries to count to five. Stops around three. “What do you mean?”

“Alynne tells me Lady Arya decided to skip their embroidery session in favor of the training yard.”

“So?”

“Not many men would allow their wives to practice swordplay. Nor should they.” 

“You’ve experience with having a wife then?” Gendry asks pointedly. 

Ronnet sneers, and it’s a slow fight to get the expression off his face. “I’ve experience enough with Ladies, my Lord.” It’s only knowing that Davos is in the onlookers that stops Gendry from swinging his fist at his next words. “Although I understand how a sole acquaintance with Lady Arya may skew perceptions of what that entails.”

“I’d shut up about Arya.”

“Or?” Ronnet tilts his head and the forced civility between them finally starts to fall away. “Will you punch me? That _is_ how they solve things in whatever gutter they found you in, isn’t it?”

“Gets the job done.” 

“The rumors must be true, then,” Ronnet presses, tone mocking. “It was a  _love_ match. Explains why she acts as though she’s the Lord.” He scoffs. “I wondered, you know, when they said you took a Stark wife. We all did. Why not the older girl? She's supposed to be the pretty one. Proper. Not some rabid-”

Gendry slams his fist into Ronnet’s gut. He can hit harder, but he knows he doesn’t need to for him to get the point. The man flops over, and when Gendry pulls back his arm, Ronnet falls to the ground. He feels several eyes on them, but doesn’t care all that much. Davos will understand. And he’d only punched when what he really wanted to do is slam his former Lordship’s head into the fence.

Ronnet glares up, blue eyes sparking with fury and face going red. “You dare strike a man in his own home?”

Gendry doesn’t even need to shake out his fist. “I dare to punch a shithead.”

“What’s going on?” A shadow falls onto Ronnet’s fallen body as Brienne steps next to Gendry. 

Ronnet scrambles into a stand, barrel chest heaving with angry breaths. “Ah, I forgot you let _Brienne the Beauty_ cling to your skirts.”

Gendry hears the way Ronnet says Beauty and starts to roll up his sleeves. 

“Her face ‘s better’n yours,” he argues, making his Flea Bottom accent as thick as he possibly can. “Shield, too, from the sounds of it.”

Ronnet goes to lunge, but he’s stopped by a short-fingered hand pressed against his chest. 

“ _Enough,_ ” Davos scolds, stepping between them. He faces Gendry and Brienne. “What’s the meaning of all this?”

Brienne’s body radiates restraint as she merely sets a hand on the hilt of her sword. “My Lord,” she asks carefully. “Has this man insulted you?”

“Arya,” Gendry corrects tightly, and Davos sags as he realizes there’s not going to be any talking down now, but he sends an angry look at Ronnet as well.

“I see.” Brienne steps closer. “Ser Ronnet?”

“What,” he spits.

Brienne gathers herself, standing tall.  “I challenge you to a duel for the Lady Arya’s honor.”

All of Ronnet’s visible skin has gone red, his eyes darting from her to Gendry and back with increasing anger. All their soldiers are assembled, and all of them are watching. Gendry thinks smugly of Davos’ warning earlier that morning.

“Don’t want to belittle yourself in front of your men,” Gendry parrots quietly. “Do you?”

Davos’ free hand pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Your terms?” Ronnet growls, near shaking. 

“Tomorrow at dawn. Single combat, sword and shield. Until yield.”

Ronnet glares at Gendry. “Is this what the Baratheon line’s come to? _Women_ fighting battles?”

Gendry folds his arms over his chest. “ _Ser_ Brienne is head of the guard. But I’ll fight you if you like. My terms are hammer.”

Ronnet's eyes dart to the side, where his men wait. Then to Gendry. Finally, to Brienne. “I accept,” he barks, loud enough for the yard to hear.

As soon as the words are out, he storms away, shoving over a poor squire in his path.

“I’ll tell the men to start packing for Rain House,” Davos says dryly. He points a finger at Brienne. “You’d best win, now.”

“Have no fear _,_ Davos.” She smiles. “I like knocking silly little boys into the dirt.”

\--

Gendry spends the better part of three hours looking for Arya after the duel’s announced. When he gets to an auxiliary training yard, what’s in front of him is the last thing he expects to see. 

Ronald Storm is holding onto a sword, arms outstretched. Arya walks around him, swatting parts of his body with a stick when they go out of form. He’s covered in sweat, face ruddy like his father’s was when he was in the middle of raging. He stands before a training dummy that has several gouges in it. 

“Boar’s Tusk,” Arya calls out.

Ronald grimaces, clearly sore, but he bends his arm so the blade he’s holding is at a forty-five degree angle to the ground. Arya inspects his stance as she walks around in a slow circle, then nods.

“Good, give it a try.”

Ronald juts out, and the blade carves into the dummy. He grins, then does it again. And again. Gendry figures it’s probably time he lets her know that Ronnet’s going to be dueled in the morning. 

“Arya,” he calls out.

Both Arya and Ronald turn at the address, and Ronald...pouts? at his arrival. Arya takes one look at Gendry then faces the boy. “Go get some water,” she suggests. Ronald goes to protest- “Then I’ll show you the high guard.”

Ronald sulks off toward a storage room of the gatehouse, leaving them alone.

“What’s wrong?” Arya demands, moving to him. 

“Brienne’s going to duel Ronnet at dawn,” he says. “We should probably leave after that.”

“Because she’ll beat him?”

“Yeah. Plus I…” Gendry looks down at the toes of his scuffed boots. “I hit him a bit.”

“Why?”

Gendry replays the prick’s words in his mind and clenches his jaw. “Got tired of him, is all.”

Arya scans his face, and he knows she can tell he’s lying. But she just holds his hand between two of hers, bringing it to their chests. “I’m tired of him, too.”

He gives a weary smile. She gives one back. 

“We’re going to supper in the gatehouse tonight,” he says. “Unless you want to dine with Lady Alynne?”

She gives him a half-hearted kick to the shin. “I’ll be there. Just give me a minute to talk to Ronald when he gets back.”

“Why?” Gendry asks hotly.

“Just go. He doesn’t like you.” 

“You’d better tell me later.”

“I will.”

“ _Fine_.”

\--

“It’s not even going to be a fight,” Sandor says, sounding almost disappointed. 

“It’s not meant to be a fight,” Brienne chides, taking a sip from the half-cup of wine she’s allowed herself. “It’s for honor.”

Sandor yawns, picking up his tankard.

“I thank you for your quick thinking, Brienne,” Davos states, sending a meaningful look to Gendry. “If we’re going to go around punching Lords-”

“He’s only a Ser,” Gendry interrupts.

“-we ought to do it _proper._ ” Davos keeps his stare solemn for a moment. Then grins. “But now we’ll make good time to the Wyldes, at the very least.”

Arya slides into the seat next to Gendry then, attention focused on Brienne. “The soldiers said you’re fighting for me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Brienne stares at her softly. “You’ve honor worth fighting for, Lady Arya.”

Arya looks almost as though she’s slapped her. A long moment passes, and then she frowns---troubled instead of angry. Uncertain. “...just Arya. Please.”

“Well, Arya. I’m glad to fight Ronnet for you.” Her tone takes an edge. “He’s not _worth_ troubling the Lord and Lady of Storm’s End.”

Gendry shoves a hunk of bread into his mouth, words coming out as he chews around it. “You said you knew him?”

“We were betrothed.”

He starts coughing. Davos slaps him on the back until he stops. 

“Perhaps that’s putting it too kindly,” Brienne amends. “We were meant to be betrothed.”

“What happened?” Arya asks quietly.

Her lips press together, and she takes a long drink before answering. “He met me.” 

“Fuck him.” The Hound shrugs, reaching over and dumping what's in his tankard into hers. She frowns at her cup when he's done. “And see how many of his teeth you can get.”

\--

It ends up being a bit anticlimactic. Ronnet arrives in gleaming white plate, with his brother serving as a nervous second. Brienne meets him, her armor more battered but still shined to the point of pride. As her second, Gendry hands over her sword.

“You good?” He asks as she prepares to start the duel. 

“There’s no need for concern.” Brienne flips the visor on her helm. “This will be over shortly.”

And it is. Comically so. Ronnet charges. Brienne merely steps to the side. He swings out at nothing. Brienne kicks him in the back. He stumbles. She swings the back of her arm. Her shield connects to his face with a sick  _crack_ that has Lady Alynne faint. 

Ronnet tears off his helm, blood streaming down his nose and into his great, big beard. He starts hacking and slashing at her, anger clearly triumphing over technique now. Brienne merely bides her time, putting in half-hearted dodges when she must. Then she shrugs her shield and gauntlet off, rears back her fist, and punches him straight in the face.

She never even had to swing her sword.

When Ronnet can’t get up, she walks over and puts her foot on the middle of his breastplate. “Do you yield, _Ser_?”

Ronnet spits. “You bitch-!”

Brienne kicks him in the side and he wheezes. She turns to Raymund. “Your brother yields.”

The people from Storm’s End, because they’re people from Storm’s End, start shouting and laughing. Brienne walks away from the circle, smiling widely.

“How many teeth?” Sandor grunts as she passes by.

Brienne considers. “Three, I believe.”

“That appease you, Lord Twat?”

Gendry thinks about it. “That enough for your honor?” He asks Arya.

She shrugs. “It’ll work.”

\--

It’s not a warm exit. All of Ronnet’s men eye them with a mixture of anxiety and disgust, but they all look away when Brienne glares at them. Raymund leaves the yard as soon as Ronnet does, but Alynne stays behind to see them off.

“I hope you visit again,” she tells Davos, grabbing hold of his hands.

“Ah, that’s. Unlikely.” He says, gently removing her grip. “But thank you for supper.”

As they seat their horses, Gendry frowns when Arya waits. “What is it?”

“We’re missing someone.”

“Who?”

And then Ronald fucking Storm rides up on his small horse, third-rate armor and supplies loaded onto it. His freckled face morphs into a scowl as he passes Gendry by, but he nods to Arya and mutters out a ‘my Lady’ before going forward.

“Arya,” Gendry says slowly. “Why.”

“He wanted to squire.”

“Squire for you?”

“Yes.”

“What the f-”

“Smart idea,” Davos cuts in. “Considering we’re leaving on less than agreeable terms.” After a moment, he lowers his voice so only Gendry can hear. “You mentioned something about new nobles, lad?”

Gendry finds Ronald’s bright red hair in a sea of Stormlander-black. “ _Him,_ though?”

Davos shrugs. “He’s here, isn’t he? As good a start as any.” 

“I can always send him home,” Arya says, making it clear she’s heard everything. “I told him as much.”

He looks at Davos. Then Arya. And swears. 

\--

Once they’ve ridden far enough away from Griffin’s Roost, Gendry leans toward Davos. “How many men’s he got, again?”

“300 seated, 500 foot.” Davos squints. “Well. 299 seated, now.”

Gendry does the mental maths. “We’d be alright without that.”

Davos lets go of a tired chuckle, running his hand down his face. “True, but don't make a habit of it.”

He nods, gathering his reins again. Gendry shifts in his seat to get a final look at Griffin’s Roost. The sun dances across the crag, hitting the windows and bathing the castle in sparkles of red and white. The crag is illuminated in orange, contrasted brilliantly against the blue of Shipbreaker Bay.

Gendry is unmoved.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”


	23. ambush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short set-up/transition chapter. sadder/angstier in tone, sorry :( 
> 
> **warnings** this chapter for graphic violence

Their third night on the road through the Rainswood, Gendry wakes up to the sound of muted yells. Arya gives his shoulder a rough push, and he blinks awake, bleary-eyed and confused.

“Get up,” she hisses, and he sees that she’s fully dressed. That she’s grabbing the daggers that hang on her waist. 

“What’s happening?” Gendry demands, adrenaline starting to kick in as he grabs his pants and throws them on, shoving his feet into boots and hastily grabbing a shirt. 

“Someone’s trying to take the camp.” Arya waits for him to stumble out of their bedroll, agitation vibrating in the air around her. “ _Hurry._ ”

He does. Outside, he hears more yelling, the sound of steel on steel. More damning, he hears someone cry out “Arrows!” 

“Fuck,” he says. His war hammer’s strapped to Rusty Horse’s saddle bags. Arya quickly hands him one of her daggers, which he doesn’t know how to use well, but he’ll figure it out. Not really a choice.

The only warning they get is the quick sound of flit-flit-flit, and then Arya’s hand is pressed against his chest and she shoves him hard. Gendry trips a little backwards, and two arrows land where he was just standing. His eyes widen when he sees they’re lit.

“Fuck!” He grabs Arya’s arm, throwing her out of the tent first, then running out closely behind her. It doesn’t take long for the tent to start crawling in flames. As he soon sees, it’s not the only one.

It’s fucking chaos. Between horses running around, arrows raining down, and several of his men scrambling to get their weapons, it takes him a minute to understand what’s happening.

Bandits, he realizes. Well-coordinated ones too, from the looks of it. There isn’t time to think, his blood pumping in his ears and breath going shallow. The last time he fought, _really_ fought, was the Long Night, next to Tormund and standing on the battlements or on top of the mountain of corpses they created. Those instincts flood back.

“Arya-” 

But she’s gone, racing toward the treeline. Fuck!

“Arya!” He yells, but she doesn’t stop, and soon he sees glints of silver in the dark. They’re moving too fast--how is she moving that fast?

It’s only when someone screams at him to get down that Gendry ducks his head. Above him swings an axe and he rolls further out of the way. He needs his fucking hammer-

“Move!” The same, masculine voice bellows from behind him, and Gendry does--watching with wide eyes as a man he’s never seen before picks up a bandit by the front of the shirt and slams him into the ground. Then he takes the man’s own axe and buries it into his chest. Blood already coats his face and arms and he gives Gendry a quick nod before he turns and breaks the neck of someone behind him in one, fluid motion.

Gendry clears his mind as fast as he can, looking around until he spots Rusty Horse. When he approaches, Rusty Horse’s screaming as he kicks up his front legs. Not knowing what else to do, Gendry grabs his hammer with one hand, and pulls himself up onto the saddle with the other. With fumbling fingers, he takes the dagger Arya gave him and saws through the tether holding Rusty Horse to a tree. Streaks of orange cut through the dark air, and he sees his men and bandits alike getting pinned to the ground by them. 

He grips the reins and digs in his heels. He’s not much of a rider but it’s better than not being one at all right now. Rusty Horse, already agitated, bolts and Gendry’s heart is in his throat when he catches up to one of the bandits and swings. 

After that, it’s just muscle memory. His horse gallops, and he bounces roughly in the saddle, but he’s strong and he can hold on well enough. Gendry grits his teeth, and his hammer slams into someone’s chest. It’s a dull feeling, just a thump and a short cry and then he’s on to the next one.

Gendry doesn’t know how long he rides, just that he loses count of how many people he hits. Then something happens to Rusty Horse, something that makes his front legs buckle, and soon he’s thrown from the saddle. Gendry’s body slams when it hits the ground, air leaving his lungs and grip on the hammer gone, his weapon flying out somewhere into the dark. His shoulder screams in pain. There’s spots in front of his eyes, and he can’t get any of the breath back in. His left arm dangles uselessly at his side--he can’t move it at all, the tips of his fingers numb. 

His vision goes in and out of focus as he stares ahead of him and catches sight of a bandit approaching. The man isn’t big, but that doesn’t matter when he’s got a sword in his hand and Gendry thinks he can’t move. Futilely, he tries anyway, the heels of his boots digging into the ground and his body slowly crawling backward. It’s not going to be enough, he knows that. His right arm pads the ground next to him, hoping to land on his hammer or a rock or fucking _something_ and the man smirks as he lifts up his sword-

There’s a growl. 

Gendry doesn’t know what’s happening. One minute the man’s standing there, the next he’s not. Gendry hears a sick gurgling sound before he realizes the man’s had his throat torn out. The dead man slumps to his knees, then keels over, and in his place is the largest fucking wolf Gendry’s ever seen.

He’s lost his mind. Or he’s dead. What the fuck is this?

The wolf stares at him with huge, yellow eyes, blood dripping from its maw. He thinks he’s going to piss himself when it snarls and moves forward. Gendry doesn’t know if he’d rather have his throat torn out or get stabbed-

The wolf stands over him, then turns so it’s facing the fight. Like he’s a pup that needs protecting or something. 

Gendry’s entire body goes numb, mouth dry. He knows he’s sweating, that his left arm is still dangling uselessly at his side, but now the pain’s starting to come. It’s almost blinding, any time he tries to lift that arm.

He tries to back out from under the wolf, but it growls as if to say _stay there_ and so he stills. He looks past it, trying to see what’s going on with the battle. There’s only a handful of bandits left, and with relief he notices that most of his men are still standing. Gendry’s eyes go to the treeline, but there’s no one else coming out. Only snarls and cries cut short.

A few moments pass, and then the wolf steps off of him.

 _I’m dead,_ he thinks. _It’s over. I’m dead._

She--he thinks it’s a she--only looks him over with yellow eyes once again. Then she sniffs, smelling him. After a moment, she sinks low onto her belly and if he didn’t know any better, he’d think she’s waiting on him.

Carefully, slowly, Gendry uses his good arm to pull himself up. Then he extends it, palm facing her, like he’s calming a wild horse or something. The wolf’s as big as a fucking destrier. After a moment, she pushes her snout into his palm, her nose cold and wet against his skin. Gradually, because he doesn’t know what else to do, he slides his hand down her side, fingers gripping into her dense, matted fur. It’s so thick his hand can’t even reach her skin. 

The wolf stands, and Gendry goes with her, flopping over her back like a sack of grain. He lets out a pained cry as he tries to move himself, but scrambles enough so his legs swing to straddle her.

The wolf pads forward, Gendry clinging onto her, and he has no idea what’s happening. He’s riding a wolf. He’s riding a wolf and everything’s on fire around him.

The wolf walks through his camp, and as she does so, he sees the damage more clearly: half the tents are burning or already collapsed. He hears the moaning of the injured and sees the glassy eyes of the dead--only a handful are his, and he feels sick to his stomach because he doesn’t recognize them, doesn’t know who they are. The air smells of blood and burning cloth and his head’s still spinning. When he closes his eyes, he sees what was left of the Street of Steel. 

His mind is a fog, but then it finds a center.

 _Arya,_ he thinks in a panic. He needs to find Arya.

Gendry’s about to start screaming her name, but it dies in his throat when she’s suddenly standing in front of them. There’s not any blood or soot on her, but she doesn’t move and her eyes are wide. He’s about to explain, to tell her this wolf came out of nowhere and he thinks she’s not a bad wolf, when he hears her exhale.

“Nymeria?”

The wolf keens. Her head bows down, letting Gendry come into Arya’s line of sight. Arya looks at him, and her eyes fill with tears. Then her back’s heaving--up and down in violent, deep movements, and he wonders if she’s hurt, but he hears the first sob. Then the next. 

The wolf--Nymeria?--moves to Arya, and Gendry can only watch as she lowers her head and nudges. Arya throws her arms around her neck, and buries her face in her fur--like the wolf’s finally come home from somewhere far away.

\--

They’ve lost six. Gendry wants to hit something when he hears one of them is Ronard. Instead, he only gets to grind his teeth as he prepares for Brienne to shove his arm back into his shoulder socket. She kneels in front of him, expression grim.

“On three, Gendry. One-”

His wrist is suddenly pulled forward and he yells, vision flooding white. Gendry thinks he passed out, and he must have, because the next thing he feels is Davos making swift and steady knots on the other side of his neck, fastening his arm in a sling. 

Arya stands next to Brienne, her brows furrowed in concern. The wolf, Nymeria, sits next to her, expectant. 

“You shouldn’t’ve done that,” he finally manages when he feels he’s not about to die. His jaw is still clenched, eyes squeezed in pain.

“Done what?” She whispers.

“Run off at the beginning of the fight. You can’t…” He takes a ragged inhale. “You can’t just do that anymore, Arya. It’s not fair.”

She stares at him, uncomprehending. He’s in too much pain to try to explain it further. And maybe he’s just delirious. Fuck if he knows. So instead, he tries to straighten where he sits on a turned-over crate. 

Arya grabs the hand of his uninjured arm, laces her fingers through his. Davos clears his throat, mentioning something about finding the Hound that Gendry doesn’t really hear. Brienne follows after him, and it’s just Gendry. Just Arya.

And a direwolf. An actual direwolf.

“She’s your friend?” He hazards, the fight leaving him to be replaced by a cold anger instead of a hot one. He doesn’t like losing people, doesn’t like losing people he’s responsible for. So he needs to think about something else so he can do what he needs to. Anything else. A giant wolf feels like a good starting place.

Arya nods. Nymeria moves to lay on her belly, giving a yawn that shows all her teeth. The fur of her snout’s got blood in it. Gendry owes her, for all that it means to owe a wolf.

“It’s good that you’re alright,” Arya mutters. 

“Yeah,” he says, squeezing her hand. “You too.”

\--

They burn the bodies. Before they do, Gendry collects each of their swords. It’s not much, but he can at least give them back to their families. His jaw works when he picks up Ronard’s, remembering his terrible singing and how he lifted his sons up off the ground in a bear hug before they left. His boys are apprenticed to him, down at the smithy’s. How the fuck is he going to tell them?

The Hound’s run off, presumably fine but avoiding the fire according to Arya. So it’s Gendry, Arya, Brienne, Davos, and a giant wolf who see the soldiers of Storm’s End off. Ronald Storm stands off to the side, his freckled face pale and Gendry wonders if this is his first actual fight. First time he’s seen people die.

“They fought with honor,” Brienne says quietly, when no one’s said anything for awhile.

Gendry’s voice is thick with anger. “Don’t see any honor in this shit.”

He turns away, feeling worthless and his good hand clenched into a fist. The weight of Arya’s stare is on his back. He knows it’s shitty of him, but he keeps walking. He’d go, maybe, like Sandor supposedly did after the fighting was over. But his stupid horse ran off.

The only thing he wants is to be left alone. So he makes it that way until he can get his head on straight.

\--

Gendry walks back to camp with red-rimmed eyes and the sun coming up. As soon as he stands outside their new, makeshift tent, he feels arms come around his waist, mindful of his arm. Then the warmth of a cheek pressing against his back, between his shoulder blades.

“Where’d you go?” Arya asks as she hugs him from behind, her voice raspy from lack of sleep.

“A walk. Until I calmed down some.” He looks at the ground, and says what he says next because Arya feels like one of the few people he can always talk to. “People are dead because of me.”

“No,” she says, certain. “They’re dead because we were attacked.”

He closes his eyes, taking a long inhale through his nose. Gendry rests his hand where hers are folded over his stomach, not pulling away. His thumb traces over her knuckles. After a moment, he feels himself sag in his stance, adrenaline and anger running out of him so all he’s got is being tired.

“You should sleep,” she says.

“Probably,” he agrees. “You should, too.”

“Okay.” Arya’s arms drop, and she steps to stand in front of him. She watches his face carefully, before she stands on the toes of her boots to kiss him. He kisses her back and tries to feel better.

When Arya pulls the tent flap, Nymeria is already lying in the middle of their bedroll, watching them expectantly. A dry, humorless laugh escapes him. Because sure. Why not?

\--

Two hours later, he wakes. Arya’s already off somewhere, Nymeria with her. He vaguely remembers her kissing the back of his neck before she got up, and her wolf huffing right in his face.

He takes his time getting dressed. Or, is forced to take his time getting dressed with only the use of one arm. The anger that was filling him has transformed into something more solid. Something determined. He wants to know who these bandits are. Why there were enough to contend with a camp of fifty armed men. 

When Gendry steps out of his tent, there’s someone waiting for him.

“Lord Baratheon?” Comes a booming voice.

Gendry turns to the side. He recognizes the man before him--tall, maybe even taller than him, with bare, strong-looking arms folded over a jerkin stained with soot and blood. He’s the one who saved his life at the beginning of the attack. The one who threw a guy, then broke another's neck. 

“Hey,” Gendry says, because he can’t muster up the energy to say anything else.

The man runs a hand through his dirty, dark hair. “I’m Bruno Wylde, son of Lord Casper Wylde. We should talk.”

Gendry looks around the half-ruined campsite. He drags a hand down his face, exhausted. "No shit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was supposed to kill off rusty horse but i couldn't do it 8( be free, rusty horse


	24. rain house (i)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao so the wyldes are gonna take up 3 chapters i guess :'D, aka another chapter i've split up. gonna try and get part 2 up soon o7
> 
> also i got a tentative chapter count up now! im estimating part one (king's landing + stormlands) to be done sooooooooooomewhere around ch. 42 (might fluctuate since LOL i cant write anything short apparently). then im probably going to do a part 2 that takes place after a pretty big time skip (10+ years)

Bruno drops a corpse on the ground. One soldier who sits nearby lowers his bowl of soup, about to protest, before he sees the size of the man who threw it. Instead, he settles on wrinkling his nose and leaving. 

“Alright,” Gendry says lowly, eyes travelling over the body. “What do we know?”

Bruno’s eyes, light hazel in color, glance up. “They’ve been attacking the Rainwoods for the better part of a month. I’ve been living on Cape Wrath my whole life. Never seen their sort here before.” He sets his hands on his waist, looking down. “Armies don’t just spring up, bandits or not. And we’ve seen about 100 of them from our guess.”

“Why didn’t you send a raven?” Gendry demands, not liking that this has been happening without his knowledge.

Bruno stares at him as if he’s gone mad. Then he almost looks upset. “You think we can’t handle _bandits_ out here?”

Gendry scowls. “Saying you don’t need to.”

Bruno scowls right back. They stare at each other for awhile.

“ _Fine,_ ” Bruno concedes.

“Yeah, it is. Don’t do that shit again.” Gendry turns. “And _you,_ go somewhere else.”

Ronald glares. The effect of it is lost with his ginger hair is sticking up everywhere and his face covered in dirt and soot. “Arya told me to wait here.”

“What, why?”

He shrugs with teenage disdain and Gendry’s about ready to leave him on the side of the road. In a ditch. Instead, because maybe Gendry’s growing or something, he just works his jaw and goes back to the task at hand. “Alright. So a month of a hundred bandits. What else?”

“No banners,” Bruno says.

“...they don’t always use them.”  

“Well, no demands either. Couple times they tried to break through our gates at Rain House but we don’t know why. Our seat is in the middle of a crag. Not much use for them."

Why is every castle here in a crag? “They all on foot?”

“That we know of. And honestly, my Lord? We don’t know much.”

It’s not the best news he’s heard. The dead man at their feet is almost the definition of nondescript: dull brown hair, flat blue eyes. Average height, forgettable features. He’s got some muscle on him, but nothing like Gendry or Bruno that could mark him as a soldier or tradesman. But he also wasn’t that skinny, didn’t seem like he was desperate for food. Grubby, but not living-in-the-trees grubby. Gendry knew both those looks pretty well. Had worn them before.

His clothes are boring, too. Boiled leathers without sigil or anything. His sword’s just iron and clumsily made. 

“Too bad we didn’t get any of these bandits alive,” he mutters to himself, lowering down to see more clearly. His arm is killing him, a constant throb that feels like a stab if he moves a muscle wrong.

“They’re not bandits,” Arya says. 

Gendry gets some satisfaction at seeing both Bruno and Ronald jump in their places. He’s finally starting to get used to her silence. Ronald’s eyes bug out when a direwolf trots beside her. Nymeria’s bigger than Ronald’s horse, Gendry thinks smugly.

“What’re you thinking, then?” Gendry asks. Bruno watches her curiously, the direwolf beside her even more curiously. 

Arya crouches next to him, her hand going for the dead man’s pants and Gendry’s eyebrows go up-

She withdraws a small dagger. Gendry evaluates it.

“Just iron,” he says, not sure what he’s supposed to be seeing.

“The blade is,” Arya agrees. She flips the dagger, so her hand covers the blade and the hilt is extended to Gendry. “I noticed these on a few other bodies. What’s the grip made of?”

He shifts so his good arm can take it, careful so as not to cut her. Then he flexes his fingers around it. It feels almost rubbery, with a give to it. Gendry’s face screws up in concentration as he uses his thigh to hold the dagger so he can adjust his hand to see it clearly. It’s almost blue, with white rings patterned into it that remind Gendry of what the sun looks like when it hits water.

“Water won’t get through it,” he settles on. “But it’s not sharkskin. Some kind of leather, though.”

“Dolphins?” Interrupts Bruno, sounding eager and breaking Gendry’s concentration.

His scrunched-up thinking face becomes a scrunched-up annoyed face. “What the fuck’s a dolphin?”

“They’re in the Reach,” Bruno says defensively.

Arya leans back, her weight resting on her heels and arms hugging her knees. She doesn’t say anything, but Gendry can feel the shift in mood. He watches her, concerned and uncertain.

“What?”

She keeps studying the corpse, but now it’s like she’s trying to find something in particular. She touches its jaw before she looks up (and up) at Bruno. “What direction do they come from when they attack?”

“West, mostly.”

Her eyes go to Ronald, who’s just been standing there all useless. “Have you seen anyone like this before?”

“No,” he says quickly.

Arya watches him. “You’re sure?”

Ronald gives a small shrug. “I don’t know. He’s like everyone else.”

“What about in a group?” 

“No.”

Arya finally nods at this. She sticks her hand out and Gendry passes back the dagger. Arya’s thumb runs down the grip. “There’s another place with dolphins.” Her thumb passes over it again, longer this time, and she frowns. “...and seals.”

“Where?”

“Essos.”

A silence passes over them, and Gendry watches Arya’s profile as she works out whatever it is she’s trying to work out.

“What’re you thinking?” He finally prompts.

“That these aren’t bandits.” Arya bites down on her lip. “They’re sellswords.”

Nymeria nudges the corpse with her nose, and Gendry’s got the disturbing thought that she wants to play fetch.

\--

He’s got six dead. Ten horses gone. One good arm. And now there's fucking sellswords from Essos. 

“What do we do?” He asks his primary advisors, tired and angry.

“Continue the progress,” Brienne says, resolute. “If they are here for you, Gendry, we can’t let them know what you’ve discovered.”

Gendry frowns. “After _me_? Bruno said they were here a while.”

“About as long as you’ve announced your trip, lad,” Davos says, looking concerned. Gendry knows the Seaworth holdings border the southeast edge of the rainwoods. “Regardless, they knew you were coming.”

“My father’s been sending men after them. We could join up? Get them together?" Bruno offers hopefully from where he kneels on the ground, packing up his gear. All three turn to him. 

“Sorry,” he adds, sounding not very. “But you weren’t being quiet about what you were saying.” He makes a swirling motion in the air with his index finger. “Probably lots of people can hear.”

Brienne’s brows pull together. “I’m sorry, you are?”

Bruno stands, hoisting a pack over his shoulder. Gendry sees the shield on it, bearing the arms of his house: a bright blue and yellow swirly thing. “Bruno Wylde.”

She frowns, looking uncomfortable. “Ser Ormund’s son?”

He shakes his head, hooking a thumb through a strap. “Lord Casper’s second oldest boy, my Lady.”

“I’m no Lady.” At Casper’s name, she seems more relieved and Gendry makes a note to ask her about that later.

Bruno smiles, and it’s big and wide and shows he’s missing a molar on the left side. “Wait. Are you Brienne of Tarth?”

“...I am.”

“They said you went and became a knight. That true?”

“Yes.”

Bruno laughs. “Cory already won’t shut up about it. She’s going to be that much worse, now.”

Brienne is still tense, but Gendry knows she’s gone from hostile to uncertain, so that’s a good sign. 

Davos finally steps in. “The young man has a point, about joining forces.” His eyes land on the sling around Gendry’s chest. “And we ought to get you to a proper maester.”

Gendry goes to shrug, then at the last second realizes the action would probably prove Davos’ point. “Had worse.”

“Didn’t say it was a competition, did I?”

"We _want_ to host you," Bruno interrupts, insistent. He's of a height with Brienne. "That's why I was out here in the first place, scouting for the bandits." He clears his throat, embarrassed. "Trying to tidy up, you know. For company."

 _Good job,_ Gendry goes to say, but holds himself back at the last moment. On the one hand, he's angry at the Wyldes for making a sellsword problem a pissing contest. On the other, going back to Storm's End meant passing by Griffin's Roost. And Bruno at least crushed a guy for him.

"We're almost there anyways,” Gendry concedes. 

Bruno laughs, that loud booming noise again, and goes to thump Gendry on the back-  
-Davos steps in and takes the hit for him, breath coming out in a little cough.

\--

Along with the dead and missing horses, they're short a Hound.

"We're going to have to leave him," Gendry says, perhaps a little too early.

Arya doesn't respond, just hands him the reins for Argella. "Take these."

"For what?"

"You need a horse. One that's easy to ride.”

"Well, what're you going to do then?" For a moment, he wonders if she's trying to be romantic or something, and suggest that he sits behind her as they ride. But that doesn't make sense for a variety of reasons. One, he's too tall. Two-

Arya hops on the back of Nymeria. They both stare at him.

"Do you need help getting on?" Arya asks, like they can just sidestep this whole thing.

"You're just. Going to ride a wolf now?"

"She's a direwolf."

He knows. But that doesn’t make it better. Is he supposed to find a stag now or some shit? Because he's not doing it.

"Okay," he says, shaking his head and grabbing the reins with his good arm. This is all starting to feel like when he’d been at the forge too long without water. "Alright then."

Things used to be a lot easier.

\--

Arya doesn't seem all that concerned that the Hound's still missing, and Gendry's not about to beg her to stay and wait for him or anything, so they leave the ruined camp within an hour. 

"That's a wolf," Bruno says stupidly to his side, Arya riding ahead to take point with Brienne.

"Direwolf," Gendry corrects, as though now he gets why that distinction matters.

"And your wife just...rides it? Like a horse?"

"Think you got eyes," he replies, annoyed.

“Where’d you find her?”

“What?”

Bruno looks at him, smiling that missing-tooth smile again. “She’s a Stark. She’s got a wolf. They said she killed some King or something-”

“Night King,” he mutters.

“Just wondering how it all came together, that’s all.” 

Gendry scowls. Was he trying to say he wasn’t good enough for her or something? “ _She_ proposed.” After she said no to him proposing. But the end’s the same. 

Bruno’s face brightens. “We heard about that! You know that one song, from Bronzegate? How’d it go again…”

Gendry’s expression darkens. “Don’t.”

“Lifted a leg, took a piss? Something like that…” He snaps. “ _The Mounted Stag_! That’s what it was called. They say it’s about you, you know.”

“Yeah. I know. Don’t sing it.”

Bruno blinks at that, some of his enthusiasm dying. “Oh. You sure?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a good song.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

Bruno rolls his shoulders. “Sure, my Lord.”

“Gendry.”

“Sure, my Lord Gendry.”

He wants to be mad at him. But as Bruno rides forward, happily bouncing on his horse, he doesn’t think he can be. Because he doesn’t think Bruno’s trying to take the piss out of him. Gendry honestly thinks he’s just stupid. 

They ride for another ten minutes before Bruno starts to hum a few notes. Gendry closes his eyes when he recognizes the beginning of that gods-forsaken song.

 _Stupid,_ he reminds himself. _He’s just stupid.  
_ _And he crushed a guy for you._

“Stormlands stag~”

_Two guys for you._

He’s so fucking loud. His family better be quieter.

\--

They’re only a few hours out from Rain House, and it’s still daylight when the muddied path gives way to neatly laid, grey brick that look mortared with moss. Argella, thankfully, isn’t skittish around Nymeria like the rest of their mounts, and so he’s able to ride next to Arya as they approach the castle.

Sure enough, it’s a crag. But not _on_ it like Bruno said. No, it’s _in_ it. It’s like someone decided to sculpt out a fortress from a cliffside and stopped halfway through. The bottom of Rain House moves from brick to stone without a transition, hovering over the last part of Shipbreaker Bay before it leads to the sea. From where they’re at, Gendry can see the columns of stones that make it up are covered with moss, that it’s up high enough that all its windows are in eyeline with the canopies of trees. The brick path they’re on winds up to a gate in a spiral not unlike House Wylde's arms.

“This better be better than the Conningtons,” Gendry says, as his head tilts back and back. He can hear the rough breaks of waves below them. And, like an idiot, he looks down to see the white foam crashing against the jagged rocks. Not much of a beach, and he can see why Rain House never took off as a port city like Weeping Town.

“It will be,” Arya says. “Bruno hasn’t told a single lie since he’s been with us.”

The statement nags at him. When they do petitions together, Gendry chalked up her insights to Arya just being good at cutting through bullshit. But the way she questioned Ronald earlier hadn’t sat right with him. It was like she knew what to look for.

“How do you know?” He asks, hoping it doesn’t sound like he’s accusing her of anything. Because he’s not. He just...wants to know.

Gendry half expects her to tell him that she just does, or to mind his business. But Arya digs her fingers into Nymeria’s fur and her voice goes quiet. “I learned how in Braavos.”

He tries to remember the full name of the place she trained in and can’t. “At the House?”

Arya nods. “It was part of becoming no one. We told each other stories--real ones, false ones. Some in between.” She glances at him, her fingers fidgeting as she buries them deeper into Nymeria’s fur. “If someone could tell, I got hit. So I had to get good at making people hear what they want to hear.”

Gendry’s mouth goes dry at the statement, and he watches her, wondering if she’s trying to tell him something.

“No,” she answers before he can ask. “I never did it with you.”

He knows. He does. But relief's there all the same. As they get closer to the gates of Rain House, he knows they’re not going to get much time together. There’s sellswords to contend with, then nobles. Bruno and Ronald and the rest. It’s all a fucking nightmare and he needs to make sure she understands what he meant to tell her last night.

“I hated that you ran off,” he starts. “Without saying anything. You were there one second, and then you were gone.”

Arya frowns, confused but not angry. Yet. He’s sure she’ll be angry in a minute. “You’re mad that I ran off to fight the people attacking our camp?”

“ _No._ Yes. I don’t know.” He runs a hand over his head. “I’m mad that you didn’t wait, I guess.”

“For you?”

It feels stupid, saying it out loud. But he’s got to trudge ahead now that he’s started. “Yeah.”

“Gendry?”

“Hm?”

Arya’s eyes are wide, soft-looking, and he never knows what to do with that expression. “I’m not a little girl that needs protecting.”

“You think I don’t know that? It’s not about protecting.” Gendry shakes his head, frustrated because he’s mad that he’s mad and doesn’t know how to say _why._ “I don’t want you to fight by yourself.”

There, that was close enough to what he meant.

“I always fight by myself,” Arya says, bemused.

“You don’t _have_ to now.” He shifts as much as he can with his shoulder to look at her. “That’s why we did this, isn’t it?” Gendry thinks about their wedding vows. “Shields for each other’s backs?”

He watches, expression serious, as the emotions run over Arya’s face. She looks annoyed, then mad, then confused again. Eventually, he can even see her make a decision about something.

“Gendry?”

“Yeah?”

Arya meets his gaze, and her features are just as solemn as his. “We can’t fight together if you don’t practice.”

He knows why he doesn't, deep down. Because when he has to think about it, when it’s not a matter of life or death, his thoughts go back to the Long Night and they don’t leave. She's right, though. He knows she’s right. He’s got a fucking ruined shoulder that says she’s right.

“Okay,” he concedes. 

“Okay,” she echoes softly. 

The gates approach, and Gendry steels himself. “Arya?”

“Gendry.”

“What should I fight with using one hand?”

Arya smiles with a strange, distracted expression that Gendry doesn’t know what to do with. “An axe.”

\--

He immediately likes Rain House more than Griffin’s Roost, not that it was a hard contest. For one, people in the square are still going about their day. There’s even chickens with little kids chasing after them. 

For another, when Bruno swings down from his horse he’s immediately swarmed by said kids. None of them look like him, or even each other, so Gendry can only assume they’re from the smallfolk who live here. They start to climb on him, two dangling off each arm as he turns and grins at Gendry and Arya.

“Welcome to Rain House!”

Attention’s on them, then. And a dozen little faces stare at Nymeria with wide eyes. Eventually, a small girl with curly, yellow hair points a pudgy arm and yells “Puppy!” 

It’s a strange sort of herd mentality then. One starts, then another. Soon there’s ten of them crying out for the puppy. Gendry looks at Arya, who looks back. After a moment, a little smile makes its way to her face, and she trots Nymeria off to the children

“Don’t pull on her fur,” Arya says levelly. “Or she’ll eat you.”

If anything, the kids are even more excited. Fucking Stormlanders.

Gendry waits until he sees Davos and Brienne dismount, then struggles to do the same. He almost falls, but before he knows what’s happening, a thick and hairy arm wraps around his waist and places him on the ground like he’s a doll.

“What in the fuck-”

“My Lord!” Comes a voice that’s, if possible, even louder than Bruno’s. Slowly, Gendry pivots. The man in front of him is clearly Bruno’s sibling, skin the same olive tone and hair the same dark brown. Only difference is he looks about ten years older, temples shot with grey. “I’m Fred Wylde.”

“Hey,” Gendry says, too close to this man’s chest. He takes a step back. 

Fred’s not alone. Behind him, there’s a slight woman with chestnut hair braided in a crown around her head, a toddler that looks like he’s probably Fred’s held against her hip. “That’s my wife, Isolda, and our son Gus.”

She nods, blowing a piece of hair out of her eyes. Gus looks like he’s trying to eat his entire fist.  “Are you hungry?”

“Sure.” 

“Come on, then. Before they get started.” 

“Get started with what-?”

“BRUNO!” Fred yells, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his already loud voice, and Gendry feels like his ears are bleeding.

“WHAT!” Bruno yells back from the other side of the square, where kids are crawling over Nymeria like she’s a featherbed. 

“SUPPER!”

“WHAT?”

“ _SUPPER_!” 

“ _WHAT_!” 

Isolda sends Gendry a consolidating look. “Don’t worry, the sisters are quieter.” She pauses. “In their own way.” 

Then, as if remembering something, she extends Gus out into the space between them. Not understanding what this means, Gendry dumbly grabs hold of the toddler. Isolda curtsys hastily, then grabs Gus back. “Inside, then?”

Fred and Bruno are still yelling, and he has no idea why they don’t just _walk over_ to each other. Arya’s watching her direwolf get swarmed with quiet amusement. A chicken runs in between his legs so fast he almost falls over.

“Yeah," he says. "Let's do that."

\--

The sisters are _not_ quieter. One sits at a harp, but plucks at the strings so slowly Gendry’s pretty sure she doesn’t actually know how to play. Another deals cards with an older man that Gendry takes to be Lord Casper, swearing like a sailor whenever she loses coins. Isolda sets Gus down almost as soon as they cross the threshold, and the toddler takes off in the same way as the chickens. Davos laughs quietly, almost immediately scooping him up.

What is this place.

“Rain House is rather remote,” Brienne explains to Gendry with forced patience. “The Wyldes...do not always abide by traditional custom.”

“Ah, Lord Baratheon!” The older man calls when he catches sight of him. He pulls his chair out with a miserable scraping noise, then stands and walks closer to him. He’s as tall as Gendry, hair in tufts and brows bushy. “We’ve been waiting on you.”

Gendry nods. “This is Ser Brienne and Ser Davos.”

Casper looks them over, then peers over his shoulder. There's something hopeful in his tone. “No wife?”

“She’s outside.”

“Damn,” Casper says under his breath. Then he yells almost as loud as his sons. “Cory! Margrat! Come say hello to the Lord again!”

Again?

The one playing cards approaches first. Gendry squints. Is he supposed to know who she is? Margrat’s got long, wavy dark hair that goes almost to her waist. Her eyes are dark, and he realizes that all the Wyldes, aside from Casper, look like they could be Dornish. 

“My Lord,” she says, giving a curtsy and seeming disinterested. 

The one not-playing the harp almost skips to them. Her hair’s in a braid that rests over her shoulder. Kind of like how Arya wears it, actually. “My dear Lord-”

Dear? How?

“-I’ve been looking forward to our meeting again.” Cory demurely lowers her gaze to the floor, spreading out her skirt as she curtsys.

He has no idea who she is. 

Thankfully, Arya, Bruno and Fred enter after them. Introductions are made, again, and Gendry does not know about this place aside from the fact that it is _too much._

Casper watches his second son, index finger running over his chin. “You’ve news?”

Bruno nods. “Lady Arya says they’re sellswords.”

“From Essos,” Arya adds. “What else can you tell me about them?”

Casper goes to start, but then stops himself. “No no no.” He shakes his head. “This is no way to receive a Lord. We’ll talk about hunting down these men without mercy like the dogs they are after supper. We’re having fresh salmon.”

\--

Supper with the Wyldes is...chaotic. Gendry’s starting to understand why their sigil is a maelstrom. They don’t drink much, but they act a little belligerent all the same. Isolda gets up and takes Gus from a reluctant Davos, then excuses herself. It does nothing to reduce the noise levels, and he can see Brienne’s blinking slowing with every passing moment.

But they eat. There’s no choice, really, because anytime any of them try to bring up the sellswords, Casper puts another plate in front of them disapprovingly. Cory’s found her way to Brienne’s side, sighing a lot as she cradles her cheek in her hand. Bruno’s on Gendry’s right, Arya on his left. Fred sits to one side of his father, Margrat the other. As they finish a cheese course, of one cheese, Casper’s eyes get hard.

“Now,” he says coldly to Bruno, wiping crumbs off of his doublet. “Tell me about the sellswords.”

Between Davos, Brienne, Arya, Bruno, and him, they recant what happened the night before, as well as the discovery of that morning. Bruno expands the conversation, telling Casper about other markers he found while on his scouting trip.

Eventually, attention turns to Margrat. She takes three cups, lines them up in a row. “Storm’s End,” she informs the table, pushing the first cup out. “Griffin’s Roost,” she names another cup, placing it out a little further. “Rain House.” She moves the last cup to make a semi-circle. Her eyes dart between them before she nods. “They’re trying to take Rain House. Then the Bay.”

“What makes you say that?” Arya questions, probing instead of combative.

Margrat grabs Gendry’s fork. Without asking, but he guesses that’s alright. She places the end of it at the cup that’s meant to be Griffin’s Roost, the spears aimed at Rain House. “Bruno says they’re all coming from the west. The lands between us and Griffin’s Roost are the least regulated.” She sends Gendry a quick look. “The Conningtons stopped maintaining their holdings in the rainswood after King Robert gave us half of it.”

Gendry frowns at the table. “So what’s it mean?”

“They’re hiding between here and Griffin’s Roost, in the rainwoods. The forest is dense, easy to get lost in. They need a place to congregate and establish a holding.” She looks at Arya. “If they’re from Essos, they need a place to either land or go home, yes?”

Arya’s gaze goes to the first cup. “Storm’s End is too fortified. So they’re starting backwards.”

Margrat nods. “With us. We’re on the end of Cape Wrath, good access to the richer merchant towns in the south. Decent access to Storm’s End or even Dragonstone. Our closest ally with any military force is Ronnet, who wouldn’t get off his fat arse for anything.”

Casper leans back, folding his hands on his stomach. “We’ll have to bring their forces here, then. Prepare pitch and oil to burn them all. Would anyone want port?”

Cory, Bruno, and Fred offer their cups.

\--

They drink, but not much. Instead, Gendry listens, trying to understand as much as he can about these people. He learns that Margrat’s something like a scholar, and they usually have her plan out regimen for their force, as well as run affairs of the House. Fred and Bruno are knights, although Bruno strays into the errant territory more often than not. Cory is interested in anything Brienne has to say, and training to be a healer.

Lord Casper Wylde is a strange man, with a strange family, and Gendry doesn’t know how he is as a Lord. But he watches how Casper talks to his children and decides he might be a good father.

He also thinks he’s going to lose half his hearing by the time this is over.


	25. rain house (ii)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmaooooooooooo the reunion everyone's waiting for.

“How long?” Gendry asks as Cory fastens a new sling around him--it holds his arm tighter to his chest, which is uncomfortable but already allows for better movement. 

She leans back on the stool she’s set in front of him, pursing her lips. “Four months?”

His heart drops into his stomach. “ _Four_?” 

“Give or take a few weeks. Maybe three, if you’re careful about it.” Cory winks. “You’re not all that careful though, are you?”

Gendry doesn’t hear her. His mind’s wrapped up--four months? Because of a fucking horse? “How can I make it heal faster?”

“Don’t move it too much. Keep it cool.” She leans forward, bracing her hands on her thighs. “You can take the splint off in two, but no lifting for at least two weeks after that. Does Brienne like girls?”

“How am I supposed to not lift things for two weeks?” Gendry pauses. “Wait, what?”

“General lifting is fine, but nothing heavier than Gus. And girls, does she like them? Is she betrothed?” Cory cocks her head. “No, that doesn’t matter. Just the first question.”

“How the hell would I know?”

“You’ve never asked?” 

“Why would I ask her that?”

Cory stares at him, then pouts, fingers toying with the end of her braid. “I’ll just find out for myself. Watch your elbow on horses, and I’m going to give you Noble Earth to drink for the next two weeks with your water.”

She gives him a leather pouch. “About a spoonful in the morning and whenever it hurts.” Cory points a finger at him, serious. “ _Don’t_ forget.”

As soon as Cory’s done, she guides him out of the room with her hand on his lower back. “Put in a good word for me, will you? What with you being her liege Lord and all.”

“Aren’t I _your_ liege-”

“And please tell her my father said I had to marry rich. He didn’t say I had to marry a _man_.”

The door closes. Gendry doesn’t want to be left alone with her again.

\--

They need to stay at Rain House for at least two weeks to make sure they flush all the sellswords out of the rainwoods. The plan is to use Gendry’s men, who have trained for siege, to man the walls of Rain House. Fred will lead a vanguard should it be needed. It loosens up the demand for manpower at the castle, giving the short-manned Wyldes more freedom for maneuvering their people.

Because most of it will fall to Bruno, who will guide hunters and scouts into the forest. There, they’ll take care of what they can using the terrain to their advantage.The sellswords are from Essos, the Wyldes are at home. It’s not going to be a glorious battle so much as traps, ambushes, and guerilla fighting. Bruno’s team will also be setting the controlled fires Casper swears will smoke the sellswords out “like sows’ teats.” Whatever that means.

Gendry’s never been tactical, but even he knows Arya’s got to go with Bruno. She knows how to set traps now, is one of the best shots he’s ever seen, and Nymeria alone is her own army. And with his shoulder, and lack of stealth, the battlements are the only place he’ll be of any use at all. 

After talking to Cory, he makes his way up alone to stand on them. He looks down at the winding road that leads back into the forest. It’s midday, sunny for once, and the only sounds are the sea and the birds that fly above it. He rests a fist on the moss-covered stone before him, tries to picture fighting here. 

Inhale: snow’s in his eyes, the smell of burnt hair and rotted flesh in his nostrils.

Exhale: the sun’s warm on his back,a gull drifts above his head.

Inhale: fingernails breaking as bones claw and climb, sparks of hollow, blue eyes the only thing he can make out in the darkness--gargled noises coming closer and his shoulders go up and down-

Exhale.

Gendry stands there for a moment more, before he turns and makes his way to the training yard.

\--

The Wyldes have less arms than even the Conningtons, but they’re all survivalists. Even the kids know how to catch and skin a deer. Isolda sits in a circle, surrounded by ten or so others wearing long aprons, as she instructs them on how to make bombs and torches with pitch and resin. Whenever Gus tries to reach for a vat, Isolda grabs him by the tiny shoulders and turns him around until he bumps into something else. 

Fred’s not far off, him and another group twisting together ropes and knots that Gendry knows will be used for the forest traps and snares. Margrat has a makeshift table covered in maps, talking to Casper as she moves little buttons around on it. Cory’s showing the little ones flowers and herbs--they’ll be helping her gather plants for poultices that afternoon. 

There’s something about the Wyldes all together, _working_ together, that makes him pause and just watch for a bit. This was what he wanted when he was younger. A family where everyone had their own purpose and value. Where everyone helped decide what happened. Isolda stops Gus from sticking his fat, little hand into a resin container. Fred’s laugh echoes around a wide-open space. Margrat flips the table over before she storms off. 

Gendry still wants this, he realizes. He wants a place where everyone feels like themselves. 

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Davos says, interrupting the wishful thinking. There’s a few bundles of arrows in his hands. “Suppose they have no choice, living as isolated as they do.”

“It’s only a couple days’ ride to Mistwood,” Gendry says in confusion. “Isn’t it?”

“Not the friendliest of days. Poor roads, bears and wolves. Uneven terrain and rough beaches.” He nods toward the sea. “When we leave for Greenstone, we’ll have to ride two miles south, then take the small port out. Sail from there.”

“So it’s just them?” He asks, watching as Fred uses an unarmed trap he’s made to contain the runaway toddler. 

“Just them. Fierce though, able to fight in any terrain.” Davos pauses. “Lord Casper’s uncle Ser Ormund accompanied us to the Wall. From what I understand, it was his idea to fish under the ice, once the cold trapped them. Helped. For awhile.”

It takes Gendry a minute to figure out what Davos is telling him. “You mean with Stannis?”

Davos nods, but now he looks more withdrawn. Sad, even.

“What is it?”

He hesitates. Like there’s something he wants to say. “...Another time, Gendry. No use for old memories from an even older man now.” It takes a moment for his features to change to a smile, but they do when he nudges Gendry with an elbow. “Believe they’re wanting you at the sparring grounds.”

Yeah. He knows. Gendry gives a nod to Davos before he makes his way to where most of the day will be spent.

\--

The grounds are smaller than what they’re used to, which isn’t surprising since the Wyldes have all of 80 men at Rain House and half of those are hunters. Most of the people sparring are Gendry’s own soldiers from Storm’s End. He nods in greeting when he passes by a few of them: Steffen, Ory, Cedric, Roy. Gendry notices when there’s no Ronard. He knows his people do, too. 

Eventually he finds the corner that’s been tucked away for them. Immediately, his mood improves when he watches Brienne kick Ronald’s legs out from under him. She turns, tossing back her short, light hair from her face as she does so. 

“Gendry,” she greets over Ronald’s supine body.

“Hey,” he smirks down at the windless squire. “Ronald.”

Ronald glares back, pure hatred making his hand scramble to pick up the sword he’s dropped. Brienne sighs, and sends Gendry a disapproving look that _almost_ makes him feel guilty. 

“Ronald and I were just practicing our parry. Arya and Bruno are toward the southwest gate.”

“Thanks.”

It’s easy to find her, after that. He just has to keep going until he sees a gigantic wolf. Nymeria lifts her head up lazily when he approaches, sniffs, and lowers it back down in boredom. 

Bruno’s there already, big arms crossed and focusing on something with keen interest. Gendry walks beside him, following his gaze. Arya’s standing in the middle of the ring, three Wylde men advancing. That in and of itself isn’t strange. What’s strange is that she’s blindfolded. Gendry watches with concern. For a long time, no one moves. But then one of the men advances, withdrawing a dagger and Gendry goes to step forward.

Arya moves too fast for him to see. One moment, she’s calmly facing the man. The next, the man is on the ground. She repeats it two more times.

Bruno gives a low whistle, looking a bit struck. “She’s still got an unwed sister, right?”

Gendry tries to picture Sansa betrothed to someone who never wears sleeves. “...sort of.” 

“Think you can put a good word in for me? You being her good brother and all.”

Gendry snorts. “I don’t think anyone puts in a good word to Sansa.”

Bruno blinks at him widely, like whatever he just said to him was in another language. After awhile, he just shrugs good-naturedly and goes back to watching the spar.

Gendry’s attention follows. Arya dodges the strikes of the oncoming men like water. “What’s the point of this?”

“Lady Arya’s going to be the one setting oil traps on the perimeters of any camps we find,” Bruno says happily, tapping a finger to his temple. “Said she wanted to practice moving around in the dark.”

It doesn’t seem like she needs practice. It’s just another thing he didn’t know about her--that she could tell or find lies, that she had a direwolf. That she can apparently move in the dark. 

“You’re really lucky,” Bruno says lightly.

Gendry reminds himself that Bruno is just stupid. That he’s not trying to rile him up. He still says “Thanks,” suspiciously. 

Bruno grins, once again highlighting that missing tooth. Maybe he got in a duel once, too. Then he bends down and grabs his swirly shield. “My turn!”

“For what?”

“Getting thrown to the ground.” 

Bruno hops over the fence, and Gendry watches as he and Arya fight. She takes her time, looking like a cat playing with its food, but eventually Bruno’s guess proves right -- soon he’s on his back, laughing as he holds his shield up over his face. “Yield!” 

Arya rolls her eyes, but twists her wrist so the point of Needle is facing the ground. “Your turn, Gendry.”

He sighs, opening then closing the gate. Arya meets him at the fence, bending down to retrieve an axe for him and the farmer’s weapons he made for her. At the sight of them, his brows raise.

Arya grips them, giving a few swings. The metal sings. “Too loud for any stealth fighting,” she explains, “But I can use them for close combat and teaching.”

“You taught someone else?”

“Ronald.”

Ugh. He only scowls a little as he picks up the axe easily with one hand. It’s not double-bladed, but the haft is long enough to give him a decent reach and swing. The steel looks good, too. Gendry wants his hammer, but knows that’s not happening with half of his torso unable to move.

“Ready?” Arya asks.

He wiggles his fingers on the grip until he’s got a good hold. “Yeah.”

“Let’s go.”

\--

She doesn’t go easy on him, but she’s mindful of his injury. After about twenty minutes, the crowd has cleared away and he’s cursing himself to hell and back for ever making her those weapons. Arya hits him lighty, but still hard enough that he knows he’s going to have welts. Usually when he gets bruises from Arya he enjoys it a lot more. 

Once an hour’s passed, he can’t physically keep up anymore--the side of his body in the sling is on fire. 

Arya notices right when he does. “We better stop, or you’ll just hurt yourself.”

“Yeah,” he drawls out, spotted like a cow from her hits and a little annoyed. “Would hate to have that happen.”

He swears she looks satisfied as she starts to pack up her equipment. Then really satisfied when he embeds the axe into the fence rather then setting it down. 

“We’ll do this again tomorrow,” Arya says in a very commanding tone and they’re both pretty sweaty, aren’t they?

“Arya,” he starts slowly. 

“Gendry.”

“Anyone know when we’re supposed to be back?”

She steps forward, hands untucking her shirt. “No.”

“So it’s alright if we’re late then?”

Arya’s hands untuck his shirt. “Yes.”

\--

The next two days pass the same way, preparing and practicing and a couple hours in a hardly used gatehouse. Then it’s time for the first of Bruno’s raiding parties. They’re set to leave at nightfall, and the only mount going with is Nymeria--the horses being too loud and potentially scared by the fire traps. They’ll be gone up to a week. Ideally, less. 

Those of House Wylde and Storm’s End spend the day making sure that the hunters and scouts going are well-supplied. Davos inventories and distributes arrows, Isolda incendiaries, Fred traps, and Cory poultices and fresh bandages. Of Storm’s End, only Arya and Roy are going out into the woods. The rest of the Baratheon forces will be joining the vanguard or stationed on the battlements if they were decent with a bow.

“I wish I could go with you,” Gendry mutters, using his teeth to tighten up a strap on Nymeria’s saddle bag. Due to her size, she’s carrying most of the supplies--something the direwolf looks less than happy about. 

“I’m glad you’re not,” Arya says flatly, eyes searching his. Then they drop, landing and staying on his shoulder. Gendry wants to know what it is she’s thinking about. “The sellswords won’t be a problem. Not with Nymeria.”

“And you being able to see in the dark.”

She doesn’t look away from his shoulder, but a bittersweet smile forms on her lips. “Yes. I guess that helps.” 

Bruno’s party is almost ready to move out, and Gendry can’t help the awful twisting in his gut. So he doesn’t try to. Instead, he just pulls her to him with his arm. “Do I give you a ribbon or something?” He mutters into her hair.

She laughs softly. “Like a favor?”

He grunts, cradling the back of her head.

Arya presses her cheek against his chest, and they stay like that until Bruno calls out for them to leave. Gendry watches them go, Nymeria padding after Arya. Once they leave the gates, Bruno blows out his torch. Then the people behind him. Eventually, Arya too. And everyone’s gone in the dark.

\--

It’s not the longest night of Gendry’s life, but it’s not an easy one either. Neither is the one after that. Or after that. It becomes an unspoken agreement that those who stayed behind gather on the battlements and watch the forest line once it gets dark. The first time they saw a fire go up, there were cheers and Casper opened up a new cask of port. 

But when there’s not fires, they all stand and watch with nerves. Usually, it’s him, Brienne, Davos, and at least one of the Wyldes. When it’s Margrat, she takes in every flare of red, marking them all down on a crudely drawn map. Once she’s done, she’ll just nod and retreat into the castle without another word.

When it’s Fred, he tries unsuccessfully to ask Gendry’s opinions on horses (“Mine almost killed me”), ships (“Only rowed before”), and hunting (“Boring”) before giving up and talking to Brienne and Davos instead. 

Isolda is usually silent, so she’s the best one. Typically she just deposits Gus into Davos’ arms without ceremony, and then stands with them to watch the forests. One time, she and Gendry have a decent enough conversation about the boiling points of things.

Cory is the worst. She fidgets. Flirts, he thinks, with Brienne who is polite but curt at all her advances. A few times, she tries to tell them stories about knights or dragons or something, but always forgets the middle. Casper, if he’s there, will fill those parts in. Otherwise he just sips his port and makes sure the oil vats they have are ready to pour over people’s heads.

“We’re not a large House,” he says slowly on their fourth night, birling port in his hand. He sniffs it, takes a very slow sip. “But, of course, everyone knows not to fuck with us.”

Gendry can agree with that after being here for a little over a sennight. He tries to remember Pod’s lesson and fails. “What’re your words again?”

“Draw All Storms.” Casper sends him a considering look. “Not quite as impressive as Ours is the Fury, but we make do.” 

Another fire goes up. He hears people cheering below. 

“How many’s that?” Casper asks.

“Seven,” Gendry answers without hesitation.

No one knows how many they’ll need.

\--

While they wait, he practices with Brienne during the day. She doesn’t tell him he’s doing well, so Gendry knows she’s not lying, but she does say he’s improving. Slowly. Cory often watches them spar, ready with towels soaked in cold water that neither of them take.

“I sent a raven to Podrick when we first arrived,” she says as they fight. “He wrote back this morning.”

“What’d he say?” Gendry grunts, trying and failing to hold off Brienne’s morning star with just his hand axe. 

The smallest of smiles. “Everything is well.”

He exhales. Then she swats his uninjured side. Now somewhat injured.

“Mind your guard,” Brienne says.

“I’ll mind it for you,” Cory suggests from her spot on the side. Both turn, neither knowing who the comment was for. Or what it’s supposed to mean. When they don’t further acknowledge her, she just rolls her eyes, attention going back to the end of her braid. “Never _mind_.”

\--

Two more nights pass. He only sees one fire go up, and hopes that it’s a good thing.

\--

Sandor shows up during the afternoon of the seventh day. He’s covered in soot and blood, clothes unwashed. “Which of these cunts,” he snarls. “Decided to light the forest _on fucking fire._ ”

“This cunt,” Margrat says, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at him. “And it’s our forest to light on fire if we want.” 

“Sandor,” Brienne greets with a sigh. “You certainly took your time.”

His thick brows furrow at her, then turn to Margrat. “You’ve got about three camps left in the northwest. Rest of them are gone.”

“How do you know that?” She counters.

“Because your brother sent me on to tell you.” His attention moves to Gendry. “And I got your stupid horse in the stable.”

With that, he leaves. Margrat watches him go, dark eyes unimpressed. “What does he do?”

“What he feels like,” Brienne answers with no small amount of unhappiness.

\--

Gendry finds himself in the stables later that day. The stalls are mostly full, so it takes him a minute to find the right one. As soon as he does, he makes eye contact with Rusty Horse’s big, brown gaze. The horse stares at him, before he lowers his head meekly.

Gendry fights down the smile. “I’m disappointed in you, you know.” 

Rusty Horse doesn’t look up. Gendry gives him a half-hearted pat on the neck. And, because he’s tired of being around people, Gendry slides into the stall and sits with him in there. As he hits the back of his head against the wooden wall, he thinks. Three camps left. Seven fires. It’s like one of Pod’s games. 

How many attacked them? Maybe thirty, on the lower end.

So ten camps. At least thirty men per camp. He doesn’t know what the going rate for an Essosi sellsword is, but 300 couldn’t be cheap. Couldn’t be just some strange, petty grudge.

“Fuck,” Gendry whispers to himself. Rusty Horse lets out a neigh of agreement.

\--

All the nights they’ve spent watching the forest are tense ones. But tonight especially so, now that they’ve got a number. 

About two hours in, there’s a fire. The Wyldes all cheer, everyone gathered. Sandor stares at the ground, grim-faced. Gendry just watches the small, orange dome in the distance, feeling useless. 

An hour later, another fire. They just need one more.

“Come on you stupid trees,” he mutters, eyes narrowing. 

In the red light of the rising sun, the smoke from their earlier traps curls over the trees in lazy plumes. The birds start chirping.

And a final fire breaks through the canopy.

\--

As soon as they see the hunters, now mounted on stolen horses, Gendry all but shoves his way down to the gate. Barely waits for it to open before he’s rushing through the gap.

Arya and Nymeria are leading the returning party with Bruno. She’s covered in soot and mud, leaves and tree branches in her greasy hair. She smells like old sweat and pitch. Gendry wraps his arm around her waist and lifts her off Nymeria, holding her up and making her legs swing out in a small, half-circle. Once she’s got her bearings, Arya wraps her arms around his waist when he sets her back on the ground.

Gendry runs his thumb over her cheek. “You hurt?” 

Arya shakes her head. She lifts one of her arms, and the sleeve pools down to the elbow. There’s a thin, leather cord wrapped a few times around her wrist. 

“It’s from your pants.”

It takes him a minute, but then he laughs before he kisses her. 

Not exactly a ribbon, but close enough.

\--

It’s not a completely bloodless victory-- but no one’s died, the benefit of staying hidden rather than a frontal assault. One of the Wyldes' people got burned badly from a trap that ignited too soon, but Cory takes him to the healing room and it seems he’ll pull through.

They gather around a fire in the middle of Rain House’s hall. Bruno looks as grimey as Arya, but his eyes are bright and he keeps laughing at his own jokes as he retells some of their exploits. Apparently, they’d caught a lot of Essosi with their pants down.

Arya leans against Gendry’s arm, her cheek pressed to his bicep. It’s almost ready to come out of the sling. They both listen without interrupting as the Wyldes swap stories and laugh and drink Lord Casper’s fine port.

“You doing alright?” He asks.

“They weren’t well-trained,” she says quietly, so as not to be overheard. “Cheap, probably.”

Gendry sets his jaw. “Not that cheap when there's 300 of them."

By her pause, he can tell Arya’s thought the same thing. “It'd be more than what the Wyldes have in their coffers.”

“What should we do?”

Arya doesn’t look away from the fire. “We talk to the rest of your Lords,” she settles on. “And see who’s recently lost a lot of coin.”

\--

Unlike the hasty retreat from Griffin’s Roost, leaving Rain House is more of a gradual thing. Davos has said his farewells to Gus at least five times now. Gendry almost likes the Wyldes. Even though they’re stupid and loud. 

Isolda makes them some logs that have grooves for holding fires in them-- “Stormlands Torches,” she’d called them. Fred makes sure their horses are all cared for, and something in Gendry squirms when he sees that Fred’s groomed Rusty Horse himself.

The day before they’re set to leave, Casper asks him for an audience. Gendry walks in, and is surprised to find the old man alone. He’s sitting at the table he and Margrat often play cards on, wine in hand.

“Have a seat.”

Gendry does. “What’s going on?”

Casper glances up, looking thoughtful. “Where is your progress taking you next?”

“Greenstone, then Cape’s Keel. Weeping Town after that.”

“Then?”

Gendry’s brows bunch together, not sure what the point of this is. “Amberly?”

The older Lord sits with this. Then nods. “My youngest three will accompany you.”

“What?”

“I’ve two daughters, and you’re about to take a tour through the richest, unwed men in the Stormlands.” Casper watches him under bushy brows. “You do the math.”

“I’m not wasting my time finding matches for your-”

Casper’s stare remains fixed in place.

Gendry glares. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

Casper folds his fingers in front of his mouth, cheeks a little flushed and light green eyes sparkling with intelligence. “Ah. Let’s try it the right way, then.” 

Shit.

“Lord Baratheon,” Casper says, lowering his voice. “To repay you for your aid in securing the rainwoods, I offer three of my children to your service. Bruno is an expert hunter. Margrat has a keen mind for tactics and cartography. Cory is training to be a healer. All are valuable assets to your journey.” He leans forward, and Gendry can tell he’s doing his best not to laugh. “I trust you know refusing such an offer would, of course, be very offensive to me.”

“They’re not coming,” he grinds out through his teeth.

\--

“You’ll love Greenstone,” Bruno says as they board the ship. “There’s so many turtles.”

“I don’t care about turtles.”

“You will when you see them. I’ll show you the coves.” His eyes brighten. “You’re meeting your cousins for the first time, aren’t you?”

The Estermonts are not his cousins. They’re Robert’s. Which means less than nothing to him.

“That he will,” Davos intercedes, sending Gendry a patient look. Behind him, Margrat directs Ronald on where to store things and Cory coos as she leads Rusty Horse and Argella onto the ship. “Exciting, isn’t it Gendry?”

“No.”

The ship’s captain goes pale when he sees Nymeria stalk onto the deck, Arya not far behind. Gendry feels a little less angry when she leans against the railing next to him. He sends her a look that he hopes communicates how annoyed he is. 

Arya smirks, and pulls on his sling until it comes off. “You’re over two weeks. Pay attention.”

Gendry snorts.

As the ship prepares to sail, Gendry’s eyes go down to the dock. Fred, Isolda, Gus, and Casper are there to send them off. Casper meets Gendry’s gaze and grins.

 _Draw All Storms,_ Gendry remembers.   
Right now, it feels like he’s stuck taking them with. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a break for a bit! When I'm back we got: Gendry's Cousins, Davos' house, and Mary "Take No Shit" Mertyns. 
> 
> & I promise they're done collecting Stormlanders :'D


	26. greenstone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look every time i say im going on a break, just assume im a fucking liar.
> 
>  **warnings**  
>  -we got smut! ftb version up shortly  
> -a reference to rape/coercion (a sentence spoken about gendry's mom / nothing explicit or graphic)

“That island’s ugly.”

Davos shakes his head, but it does nothing to hide his amusement. “Not once you get closer.”

“Nothing that’s ugly gets better when you’re closer to it.”

“Come on, then. Might as well get this all out of your system before we dock,” Davos says under his breath.

Now that he has permission to do it, it’s not as enjoyable. Gendry leans forward on the railing, watching the island slowly approach and finding more ways to hate it. There’s  _ more crags,  _ for starters. Crags. On an island. An island of crags.

He hears shouts behind him and turns. Bruno’s started some kind of game involving a lot of kicking and a ball behind him, playing with the deckhands, a disgruntled Ronald, Cory, Arya, and, shockingly, Brienne. Bruno called it socks, since it was all played with feet.

“Can we just skip this one?” Gendry mutters. And, maybe a little manipulative: “I know you want to get back home.”

Davos arches a brow. “The Estermonts were your grandmother’s people-”

“Didn’t know her.”

“-and are one of the principle Houses sworn to you.” He watches him carefully. “After the Conningtons, you can’t afford to upset them as well.”

Gendry faces the water with a frown. “The Wyldes like me.”

“Aye, and that’s good. But the Wyldes are barely 400 at arms, and those arms are spread out all among the woods and disorganized.” Davos lets that settle. “The Estermonts are nearly 3000 bannermen.” 

“ _ Fine _ ,” Gendry concedes after a long pause. Maybe that’s more.

There's the sound of hollow footsteps on the deck and Davos and Gendry both turn. Margrat pays them no mind, watching the island and looking how Gendry feels.

Davos gives a small smile at her arrival. "Visit Greenstone often, Lady Margrat?"

"When coerced."

Gendry and her sigh and cross their arms at the same time. Davos looks between them, troubled.

\--

Greenstone is...green. Like Rain House, moss seems to be on all the buildings. The beach is littered with strange, glassy-pale rocks. On impulse, he bends to pick up a handful. They feel almost soft, catching light on his palm.

"Sea glass," Davos informs him.

He puts it in a pocket, not sure why.

Gendry helps unload the horses with the rest of his people. And he gives Nymeria two pats on the head whenever he passes her. On the third time, she concedes to getting affection and slobbers all over his arm.

"There's people coming," Arya says as they both set down saddlebags that need to be refilled.

Gendry looks to the narrow, steep path that goes up from the docks to the castle, the steps made of uneven rock. Gendry's starting to believe roads just don't exist anywhere but Storm's End. 

There's a short trail of people, all men in various shades of green or light blue clothing. And Gendry groans because only nobles bother with matching outfits.

"What's wrong?" Arya asks.

Gendry shakes his head. "They're going to talk about Robert the whole time we're here."

"You don't know that-"

A deep, baritone voice is suddenly in his ear. "By the Seven you're Robert's spitting image!"

And before Gendry even knows who the newcomer is, he's turned around and trapped in a hug so tight he hears his back pop a few times. He glares over the man's shoulder at his wife--a clear  _ I told you. _

\--

The one who held him against his will is Lomas Estermont, his great-uncle. Then there's a bunch of names he forgets almost immediately. They don't look like how he thought they would--all sandy-brown hair and light eyes. 

When he introduces Arya they all stare at her. Then him. And Gendry's immediately defensive. 

"What?" He demands.

One of the men steps forward. He's got a longer beard that's triangle-shaped and thick eyebrows. His hair's the same color as Rusty Horse. His hat is fancy--velvet or something.

"Welcome, Gendry. Arya." He then looks past them and laughs--an abrasive noise that has Gendry wanting to cover his ears. "Davos! You old pirate!"

"Andrew," Davos says, stepping forward and clapping his hand on Andrew's shoulder. "You look well."

"You look exactly the same."

"My younger self is offended."

Gendry watches them, not sure how to feel about the exchange. Davos never mentioned having a friend here.

Lomas interjects, "Perhaps you'd like to introduce your companions, Gendry?"

_ No.  _ "That's Brienne."

"My Lords."

"Ah! Selwyn's girl. How is the badger?"

Brienne considers. "In good health."

Gendry points a thumb over to where the horses are being watered. "That's the Hound-"

"Sandor," Arya corrects.

One of the younger men's eyebrows raise. "Clegane?"

"Yes." Arya steps aside. "My squire, Ronald Storm."

Ronald gives the shittiest bow Gendry's ever seen. And Gendry’s are pretty shitty. "My Lords."

An older man next to Lomas gives Ronald a slow once-over. "Connington's bastard."

"Arya's squire," Gendry corrects tightly.

He sees Ronald turn to him in surprise, but Gendry doesn't look back at him. It's not about  _ Ronald. _

"Hmph." Is all the old ass says. Maybe later he'll bray like a donkey.

Andrew grins in recognition as three more join their party. "Bruno, how on earth did you end up here again?

Bruno grins, thumbs tucked into his shield straps. "Miss me, Ser Andrew?"

"Aye, got some heavy things that could use lifting." Andrew gives a gentler smile. "Lady Margrat, it's well to see you also."

She nods in that curt, neutral way of hers, but then a man pushes forward and she starts emanating hostility.

"Lady Margrat," the youngest of the men whispers dreamily. He reaches for her hand. She glares at him the same way she did at the seaweed that accidentally got stuck on her trunk.

"Alyn."

"I've been thinking of you since the feast at Mistwood."

She still doesn't offer her hand. "Fine."

Gendry snorts.

Cory's eyes scan the accumulated men, then her shoulders slump. Unimpressed, she goes back to picking at her hair.

"Come!" Lomas proclaims cheerfully. "Let's some ale and hear of your travels!"

Gendry and Arya catch each other’s eyes. They had agreed not to tell anyone of the sellswords, something they had relayed to their traveling companions. Now, the question was whether they would all be able to keep their mouths shut.

\--

The first person Gendry’s introduced to is Eldon Estermont, Lomas’ brother and the current Lord of Greenstone.

He’s a cantankerous old fuck who smells like sea brine.

Eldon might’ve been tall once, but at over 70 years old, his height has transformed into a stoop and hunched back. His eyes are bushy like Andrew’s, and if his hair wasn’t pure white, Gendry would assume it was probably the same light brown as everyone else’s. He assesses Gendry like he’s a horse with his glassy-green eyes.

“You’re tall, aren’t you boy?”

The way he asks reminds him too much of Flea Bottom. When random people would value him for being tall or strong or whatever else they could use him for. “Can’t say I’ve been trying too hard at it.”

Eldon sniffs, and Gendry looks from him to Lomas, whose red cheeks and still-rusty hair and beard make him think of a jolly version of the Father in the Seven. If it weren’t for the similar eyes, he wouldn’t put them together as siblings.

“And a Stark girl,” Eldon says, sending Arya the same narrowed stare.

“Arya,” she corrects coolly. 

“Are you going to be as much trouble as the last one?”

“Why don’t we have some ale, uncle?” Andrew cuts in, already pulling out a chair. Eldon grunts, but follows his instruction. 

As soon as he sits, Lomas follows, patting a chair next to him. When he doesn’t break eye contact from Gendry, he scowls, but sits in it. 

The second person he’s introduced to is Eldon’s wife, Sylva, who’s got to be at least half her husband’s age. She doesn’t say much, just keeps a glare trained on her plate and a wine glass full. He’s then reintroduced to Aemon Estermont, the braying donkey and Eldon’s heir. 

Alyn is Aemon’s son, who’s been making cow eyes at Margrat since she’s arrived. He pulls out a chair for her, and then deeply scowls when Bruno obliviously takes it and starts asking Alyn about the latest tourney he attended. Margrat smirks, sitting next to Cory, Ronald, and Brienne toward the end of the table. The Hound, unsurprisingly, decided not to show. 

Andrew’s attention is at the end of the table for a moment, before he turns to Gendry and smiles. Again. He  _ doesn’t stop.  _ “You’ve been to see the Conningtons?”

“Pricks,” Eldon grunts.

Gendry can’t help but agree. “Brienne took out three of Ronnet’s teeth.”

Andrew’s eyes go a little wide, but Eldon just starts guzzling ale. “Figures she’d have more between her legs than Ronnet-”

“ _ Uncle, _ ” Andrew cuts off, turning to Brienne. “Apologies. My uncle is tired from…”

“I’m not tired.”

Lomas starts laughing.

This is going to be a long fucking supper.

\--

Gendry hoped that eating would be the end of it, that they’d be shown to their rooms and they could all fuck off for a bit. But apparently that wasn’t the Estermont way. Instead, they’re gathered around to share  _ stories.  _ Andrew smokes a pipe, Eldon drinks until he snores himself intermittently awake, and Lomas acts like he’s actually happy Gendry’s here. Which he doesn’t trust.

“The first time your father was here,” Lomas says with a laugh. “He dropped his pants and pissed right into the ocean! Right in front of our father, who wasn’t the fun-loving sort by a mile. Cassana was ready to pitch him into it-”

Gendry doesn’t want to hear about how Robert was a rascal or a troublemaker or how much Cassana Estermont loved him. So he sulks, half-paying attention to the words that are being exchanged over his head. It’s like he’s not even there, just a stand-in for whatever memories these people have of Robert or his brothers. Something to talk  _ at.  _

Lomas lays on the floor in the sitting room, weight propped up on his elbows. “This was a love match, then?”

When Arya answers, Gendry’s thoughts land back in the room. “Yes.”

Lomas points at Gendry, and he steels himself for  _ yet another  _ fucking comparison to Robert and Lyanna. “Your grandparents married for love.” Lomas gives a sad smile, staring out at something. "I don't think I would've been able to part with my dear sister otherwise."

"What was she like?' Arya asks.

"Stubborn as a mule," Lomas says with a laugh. "Which I supposed made her patient--if only so she could wait out the people she disagreed with. Always running around barefoot." His words go soft. So soft Gendry barely hears it. "Loved the ocean."

He knows how Robert’s parents died from Davos and Podrick’s lessons. That they'd been sailing back from Volantis when their ship sank in Shipbreaker Bay. That they'd almost been home, and their sons had seen it all happen. 

"Uncle Steffon adored her," Andrew cuts in when he sees his father go somber. "Held a tourney for her in Storm's End at her request. She liked watching people being knocked off their horses during the tilts."

That made sense. The only good part of a tourney was the nobles falling on their asses for coin they didn’t need.

A particularly loud snore tears through the room. 

“Ah,” Lomas says with a wink. “Perhaps we should get my brother to bed?”

“I’m not tired,” Eldon grumbles, before his head lolls back again.

Andrew catches Gendry’s eye. “A hand if you would, cousin?”

He’s not his cousin. But he does want the old man locked up in a room as soon as possible. So he stands and lifts the miserable fuck over one of his shoulders, while Andrew takes the other.

“We’re-” a grunt as they haul the fossil over some stairs. Fuck, of course there’s stairs. “-happy,” another grunt, “-to have one of Cassana’s grandchildren here.”

It doesn’t take Gendry near as much effort to life the sack of bones, so his response clear and uninterrupted by heavy breathing or strain. “Guess you better go find one.”

The long pause tells Gendry he’s fucked up. And he doesn’t regret the words, but he wishes he hadn’t said them out loud. Gendry can almost hear Davos’ disapproving beard stroke.

“Ah,” Andrew says after a moment. 

They dump Eldon in his quarters, then Andrew gives an awkward half-bow before he wishes Gendry a good night.

Gendry watches him leave, wishing he had at least said the mean thing to Aemon, who he’s decided deserves mean things.

\--

Arya wakes Gendry before the sun’s fully risen, and not in a fun way.

“Get up and let’s work on your shoulder.”

“In a fun way?”

“Fun for me.”

“Damn.”

An hour later, he’s down to his trousers and sweat coats his entire body. Gendry’s chest moves in shallow breaths. His right side is screaming at him for having to pull the weight of the left, his fingers numb from keeping a tight grip on the axe. 

“You’re getting better,” Arya says with a cool nod of her head. Her linen shirt’s bunched at the elbows, her pants rolled up to the knee. After spending so much time in rainy woods, the direct sun that hits the beaches of Greenstone is almost sweltering. “You should start working your left side more.” 

“Cory told me to take it easy for the first two months.”

“Easy doesn’t mean not at all.”

Gendry rolls his eyes. “Forgive me, milday, for not healing fast enough to your highborn liking.”

She grins. He wants to stay annoyed, but eventually he finds himself grinning back.

Then Bruno had to go and ruin it. One moment, Gendry’s just standing there. The next, his good arm’s getting pulled on and he’s being dragged down to the beach. 

“What the  _ fuck  _ Bruno?”

“Turtles are out! Time to swim!” 

Gendry’s heart stops. “I don’t-”

“I’ll teach you,” Arya promises, her arm similarly held by Cory who is shedding her clothes at an alarming speed.

Gendry shrugs Bruno’s grip off of him. “I’ve got...Lord things, to do.”

“Oh. Davos said you didn’t,” Bruno says, looking sad.

Arya sends Gendry a mocking look. “You’d rather be in the castle? Really?”

He frowns. “You’re staying here?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck. Fine.”

\--

Gendry’s kind of glad he brought the Wyldes along, if for no other reason then they clearly scandalize the people around them. Bruno and Cory unabashedly strip to their smallclothes before diving in, letting Greenstone see...a lot. Margrat joins them, forgoing swimming for a warm rock to sit on. She’s a lot like a mean cat.

“I don’t want to do this,” he grumbles to Arya as he kicks off his boots.

“You live on a beach. You should learn to swim.” Gendry notices that Arya keeps her full shirt on as they walk to the water, and it makes him frown a bit when he realizes why. 

“You don’t even know what’s down here,” he grumbles. 

“Turtles. Maybe sharks.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

“Guess we’ll find out.”

They stay apart from the Wylde siblings, Bruno deciding to throw Cory into the ocean and Cory deciding to retaliate by splashing salt water into his eyes. Once Gendry’s about shin-deep in water, Arya stops and faces him.

“Comfortable?”

“With what?”

“The water.”

He’s pointedly not looking at it. He doesn’t want to see turtles or sharks or dolphins, even though he still thinks the last one’s made up. “It’s fine.”

“Okay, sit in it.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how the sea works.”

“Just do it.” 

He does. And Arya makes him lay back and practice kicking which is probably the stupidest shit he’s ever done. When Bruno comes over to encourage him, Gendry’s even further convinced that he hates swimming and the ocean and anything Bruno likes.

About an hour later, Gendry’s pissed off because he’s failed at floating on his back for the fourth or fifth time. Arya’s looking at the shoreline, and so Gendry’s eyes follow her. There, he sees Andrew having what seems like an amiable conversation with Margrat, but the woman to his side is new. Whoever she is, she’s about Andrew’s age, short, and...top-heavy.

“Guess I need to go talk to this one, too,” he mutters under his breath. And maybe, yeah, he does feel a little bad about last night. Not much, though. Gendry looks at Arya. “You want to keep swimming?”

She tears her gaze away. “If you want.”

Gendry nods. “I’ll be right back, then.”

Before Arya can protest or follow after him, Gendry steps out of the water and goes to say...something, to Andrew. Water’s dripping down his face, so he runs his hand up to clear it. He hates how his trousers are now water-logged and clinging to his skin.  The others turn at his approach, and Margrat looks vaguely annoyed for some reason. Gendry ignores her and the other woman to address Andrew. 

He clears his throat. “I meant what I said last night. But I didn’t have to be a dick about it.”

Andrew takes in his sincere apology. Then pats Gendry on the shoulder--the sting Gendry feels letting him know he’s been sunburned. “I understand. We should’ve been more understanding.”

Gendry doesn’t know what to do with someone  _ nice,  _ so he settles on just crossing his arms and waiting for Andrew to do something.

“Gendry, this is my sister Beatrice,” Andrew says after it’s clear that Gendry’s not going to talk.

He turns in time to see Beatrice’s stare dart up guiltily. What was she looking at? “Please, call me Bea.” She extends a hand.

Gendry shakes it quickly. He’s probably not going to remember her name one way or another. 

“Rough hands,” she comments in a light voice.

Gendry’s brows knit together. 

Beatrice smiles. “I was close to your father.”

Good, now he knows he doesn’t have to like her. It seems like Beatrice is waiting for some kind of response on his end, but Gendry doesn’t have any that he’d care to give. She leans forward and Gendry looks away with his ears burning a little red. She was about to...spill. 

“And you do look  _ just  _ like him the last time he came to Greenstone. Different hair, of course.” Beatrice gives a little hum. “Have you thought of growing it out?”

“No.” 

Andrew clears his throat. “Gendry, we were thinking of having a bonfire on the beach tonight. Would you and Arya like to attend?” 

No. “Who else is going?”

Robert’s cousin looks a little thrown by the question. “Ah, Davos suggested the idea.” He turns to Margrat, and there’s something weird about how he asks her versus how he asked Gendry. “Would you and your siblings be interested?”

“They both like anything shiny,” Margrat says with a shrug of her shoulders. 

“Oh you  _ have  _ to come. I know so little about you!” Beatrice exclaims.

Gendry frowns. “You know nothing about me.”

She gives that hum again that he doesn’t like. “All the more reason to converse, isn’t it?” She tilts her head and he’s reminded of the women at King’s Landing. “Plus I’d love to meet your wife.”

“She’s right here,” Arya says, walking up to the group and standing between Gendry and the woman. She gives Beatrice a small nod. “I’m Arya.”

Beatrice gives a small curtsy. “We’re honored to have the Princess of the Six Kingdoms at Greenstone.”

“...thanks.” Arya glances at Gendry and he’s a little thrown by how impatient she seems. “I need your help with something.”

“What?”

“Something. Let’s go.” She gives a quick nod of dismissal to those gathered, and before Gendry knows what’s happening she’s got him by the wrist and they’re moving toward the training grounds.

“You okay?” He asks, confused.

“Fine,” Arya says shortly. “And put a shirt on.”

\--

Whatever caused Arya’s strange mood, it’s gone by the time they go back to the beach. It’s held on the northern side of the island, and Gendry’s amazed to discover it’s not as ugly as the rest of it. Instead of rocks and sea glass, there’s soft, white sands and tall grass that sways in the wind. In the center of a long stretch of sand, he sees a large fire starting to go up.

“Not so ugly now, is it?” Davos asks, and Gendry hates how he’s right all the time.

“It’s not bad.” 

“And the Estermonts? Your thoughts there?”

“They talk too much.” Well. “Andrew seems alright.”

“Aye, he’s a good lad. Loyal to the Baratheons.”

“Doesn’t mean much. Half of them were bad.”

Davos sends him a long look. Gendry can tell he wants to say something stronger, but he tempers it. “Half...doing alright by Great Houses standards then, aren’t we?”

“Hmph.” 

“Be the better half,” Davos continues. “And give your kin a chance.”

His kin that night are just Lomas, Andrew, Alyn, Beatrice, and a new woman he’s never met. She introduces herself as Hilde, says it’s nice to see him again, and Gendry just nods and doesn’t say anything until she walks away.

Gendry’s never really been to a beach before. The shores at Storm’s End were too rough for something like this, and trying to find the shoreline at King’s Landing usually meant finding a corpse or two floating by it (he’d know, he put one there that one time). But it’s not all that different than when they have celebrations in the village--a band starts playing, people pass out wine or ale, some are dancing. Gendry finds a place next to Arya on the sands and glares at the musicians with such mistrust none of them meet his eyes.

Arya looks nice. Her hair’s all down and she’s wearing a cleaner version of what she wore training this morning. He brushes her hair aside and kisses the back of her neck lightly. 

“Think they’ll leave us alone?” He mumbles half-heartedly against her skin.

“No,” Arya says in resignation. “I’ve been asked four times if I know I look like my aunt.”

“Getting sick of that happening.”

“Me too.” She glances at him, wry amusement on her face but he sees how tired she looks under it. “Don’t start a war if I end up in Dorne.”

He’s tired, too. “Don’t get kidnapped by anyone and I won’t.” 

Arya snorts, picking at a thread in the hem of her shirt. “If anyone’s in danger of getting kidnapped, it’s you.”

His lips part as he thinks. “What you mean?”

“You don’t know?” Arya asks, a little lost.

“Why would I ask if I knew?”

“Daenerys was thinking of marrying you, you stupid bull.”

Gendry stares at her, uncomprehending. “But she’s married.” Gently, to remind her: “To Jon.”

“She was thinking of marrying you, too.”

“Don’t be stupid. You can’t get married twice.”

“What do you think the three-headed dragon means?”

“I don’t know? Three dragons?”

Arya draws her knees to her chest, presses her forehead against them, and  _ huffs.  _

Gendry continues to frown so hard his forehead hurts. “She doesn’t even like me.”

“She likes the Stormlands well enough.”

Gendry’s forehead scrunches further. “Jon wouldn’t’ve liked that.” 

“No shit.”

Wait. “Is that why you told me to marry you?” 

“Not  _ just  _ that.”

“Arya, what the fuck?”

Bruno plops down on the ground next to him, hard enough to spray sand. “How’d your swimming go?”

“I’m trying to talk to my wife right now,” Gendry says testily. 

“Oh. Okay. Hi Arya.”

“Hi Bruno.”

“Alyn’s really excited to play socks with us. You want to join in later?”

“Sure Bruno.”

Thankfully, he leaves as fast as he came, but Gendry’s feeling no less agitated. “You married me to cock block Daenerys Targaryen?”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“It’s true like that.”

She rolls her eyes. “I should’ve just let her marry you then?”

“No!”

“Then what’s the problem?” 

“I don’t fucking know. Maybe you could've  _ told me  _ at some point?”

“It doesn't matter anymore!”

He glares at her. Arya glares right back.

“Ah, young love.” The statement is punctuated by a hiccup. 

Gendry’s gaze flickers up and lands somewhere that immediately has his eyes going  _ more up.  _

Beatrice smiles at them, swaying slightly and her cheeks already stained pink. The sun’s not even gone yet. “Don’t worry,” she says with a little wink. “Robert and his wife were much the same.”

The statement feels like someone made him eat lead. And Gendry’s rearing up to tell her to fuck right off when Arya suddenly stands. 

“Where you going?” He asks hotly.

“I’m going to go play socks,” she says back, just as hotly. Arya glances at Beatrice and bald disgust is on her face before she crosses over to where Bruno is physically dragging Alyn into a game.

He gets up to go after her, but Beatrice blocks him. She has to reach up to pat his cheek, which doesn’t do anything to make the action less condescending. 

“It’s so strange seeing you here. Like you’ve walked right out of the past, and what  _ wonderful  _ memories they are-”

“My Lady Estermont,” and Gendry almost sags in relief when Davos walks up. “You seem in good spirits.”

She slowly turns away from Gendry, her hand dropping from his cheek to stare at Davos. “Do I know you?”

“Ah, met but the once. You...left quite the impression.” Discreetly, Davos nods to the side.

Gendry, seeing the opening, gives him a quick nod of thanks before he retreats as fast as he can. He makes his way to the game, and sees Cory sitting on the sidelines watching. Not sure what else to do, he sits next to her.

“How’s your shoulder?” She asks, tossing her braid over her shoulder. 

“Better,” he says honestly. It’s still stiff, and the muscles get tired easily, but the screaming pain is starting to fade for more of a throbbing one. 

“That’s nice.” Cory waits a few minutes before she sends him a side glare. “Brienne said no.  _ None  _ of the men here are the least bit attractive. I’m disappointed in this progress so far, Gendry.”

He balks. “Why’s that my problem?”

“Father said you were out to find me a husband. Or a rich woman to keep me.” Cory gestures into the empty air. “Where are they?”

“That’s  _ not _ -” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’re not here to do that.”

She pouts and cradles her chin in her hands. “Even  _ Margrat  _ has someone interested in her.”

Gendry looks over to the game. Arya knocks Alyn straight into the dirt. Gendry’s still annoyed, but he smiles at it. “She doesn’t seem to like him, though.”

Cory leans back, looking at him like he’s not too bright. “Are you joking? She said he  _ wasn’t bad. _ ”

“Alyn?”

“Ew, no. Andrew.”

What? “But he’s old.”

“Not that old.”

Gendry frowns, and tries to find either of them around the party. He can’t, so he supposes that says something. 

“They’re done,” Cory points out. Then, louder. “I want next game!”

Gendry watches as Alyn staggers away from Bruno and Arya, clutching his side and swearing under his breath. Arya comes after him, a little hesitant as she approaches Gendry. He watches her, waiting. 

“I should have told you,” she concedes. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “But you’re right, it doesn’t matter.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Arya steps forward, wrapping her arms around his waist and Gendry rests his chin on the top of her head. 

\--

Over the next few days of their visit, things go relatively smoothly. He and Arya discreetly look into the Estermont coffers, which match up with their books and he’s honestly a little relieved. During the day they practice and he reluctantly tries to keep learning how to swim. One afternoon Andrew joins them, and he’s a way better teacher than Arya--something that makes her scowl when he says it.

It doesn’t take Gendry long to realize that the only Estermonts worth talking to are Lomas--whose biggest offense is just that he wants to talk about his dead sister too much--and Andrew. Eldon, Aemon, and Alyn seem to be a lineage of sour fucks, and Beatrice makes him uneasy every time she seeks him out.

Which is often. Anytime they’re in a room together, she’s got a story about Robert. Or a reason to touch his arm. Or, worse, she touches his arm while talking about Robert.

It comes to a head a few nights before they’re set to leave. Gendry’s in the stables, making sure Rusty Horse is doing fine, when he hears a hiccup behind him. He sends Rusty Horse a frustrated look, then turns.

“Yeah?”

Beatrice stumbles a little in her step. “Out here all alone?”

Gendry just watches her with narrowed eyes. “Not anymore,” he says unhappily.

“You and y-your wife have another row?”

What the fuck? “What are you on about?”

“You don’t have to lie to me. Robert was the same way with the Queen. With all his women.” 

He’s had it with her. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re saying.”

“I know better than anyone!” And it’s at the outburst that Gendry realizes there’s something sad about her. Sad and fucked up. “Robert and I were lovers, you know.”

He grinds his teeth. “Wouldn’tve guessed.”

“ _ Real  _ ones not. Not whatever it was he had with everyone else.” 

He doubts Beatrice meant more to Robert than any of his others.  _ None  _ of them could have meant much to him. His fists clench.  

She stumbles forward, the firelight from the torches casting harsh glares on her features. “You look so much like him…” 

She reaches for his shirt. Fed up, Gendry swats her hand away. “I don’t give a shit.”

Instead of leaving like a sensible person, Beatrice lets out a laugh. “You don’t have to put on an act. No one’s here but me and you-”

“It’s not an act, and I think you should go inside now.”

“We could have some fun. She wouldn’t have to know.”

He wants to be sick at those words. Not just because they’re fucking insulting, but because he’s sure Robert said them to  _ her  _ at some point. That Beatrice looks at him and sees that piece of shit. That she thinks he’d  _ be like him. _

“Stay the fuck away from me,” he snarls, shoving past her and out into the open air where he hopes he can breathe a bit more.

\--

The next night, he’s got one heavy hand between Arya’s shoulders, another on her lower back, and she’s got a knee on either side of his ears. Gendry’s fingers flex against Arya’s bare skin as he buries his face in her cunt. Above him, she exhales in quick little pants as her hands brace her weight against the headboard.

There’s something desperate in how he works his tongue, even though his movements are careful. Gendry takes his time, not in a hurry to do anything else. He licks open her slit, and lazily strokes her with the flat of his tongue. She starts rocking a little above him, trying to get him to increase the pressure and he smiles against her. Gendry thinks Arya doesn’t have it in her to be patient, which makes him only want to tease her more. When the rocking becomes grinding, he decides to finally give in. Gendry adjusts his grip on her body, keeping the one hand between her shoulders where it is to anchor her, and moving the other to grab the back of her thigh. His fingers press tightly into her skin, and he hears Arya’s sharp inhale when he starts to fuck her with his tongue. 

Gendry keeps the pace slow, partially because he enjoys working Arya up, but mostly because he enjoys making her feel good. Under his hand, he feels her thigh muscles starting to tense, but they’re not nearly tense enough. 

Gendry pulls away just enough to mutter instructions in a hoarse voice. “Lift up.”

Arya complies, giving him enough room to move his hand so he can start fingering her while she sits on his face. It’s awkward for him, but he puts one hand on her waist and uses the other to pump two fingers into her while he tongues at her clit. Due to the angle, he can push deep into her. He must hit a good spot because she groans out a “Fuck,” to herself and tosses her head back. 

Gendry can feel her start to clench around him, almost there but not quite. He adds a third finger, enjoying the strained gasp it elicits from her. When her legs start to shake a little, he gives her clit a hard suck at the same time he crooks a finger and this time she shouts out his name.

Gendry slowly withdraws his fingers and gently teases her clit with his tongue as she comes down.

Arya collapses next to him, sweat-soaked and breathing hard. She only stays that way for about two seconds before she rolls on her side and looks at him. “What do you want?”

He’s hard, but he doesn’t  _ want  _ anything. Nothing right now but to make Arya feel good. So in response, he just shakes his head and pulls her to his chest, closing his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, and he hears concern in the question.

“Nothing,” he says, holding her tighter with his good arm. “Just want to be like this.”

She’s silent for a long time, but she doesn’t move and after awhile Gendry feels himself start to nod off, then eventually sleep.

\--

He’s up before her, for once. Gendry stares down, rubbing his thumb slowly over her shoulder and watching her chest rise and fall, not ready to wake up yet. She must feel his stare or sense a change in his breathing, because her eyes slowly open and she’s watching him in curiosity. 

“What’s wrong?”

He needs her to know. More importantly, he needs to say it. “I’m never going outside this bed. That’s it for me.” Gendry thinks of the night in the stables and feels angry all over again. “I’m not going around to father bastards or treat you like shit-”

“Gendry,” Arya interrupts. “Did something happen?”

“I hate it here,” he finally confesses. “They keep talking about him. Either he was Cassana’s little son or some noble fucking warrior or. Or fuck, I don’t know. But no one ever talks about how he couldn’t keep his cock in his pants, how he fucked the entire Seven Kingdoms, or how he went and got himself killed over a gods-damned pig.” 

Gendry bites down on the inside of his cheek. “I don’t even know…” Fuck, he hates all of this. But now that it’s started it isn’t stopping. “I don’t even know if my mum  _ wanted  _ him. She wasn’t a whore, wasn’t some fancy lady who might’ve been able to tell him no without being scared of it.” He sits up, hand on top of his head. On top of the short hair he keeps short for a reason. “And now I’m here on this stupid, ugly island and no one can shut up about how much I look like him.” 

He hears Arya shift on the bed, then feels her legs on the inside of his as she kneels in front of him.

“You look like you,” she says in that certain, highborn way of hers. He’s instantly annoyed by it, which he recognizes is the point. “What was your mother’s name?”

It shames him that he has to think about it. “Lynne.”

“What do you remember about her?”

Gendry frowns. Not just because the answer to the question isn’t much, but because he remembers who last asked him. Gendry doesn’t remember Ned Stark all that well, just that he’s heard Jon and Arya carry his looks. Grey eyes, brown hair. Arya’s got nothing of her mother, either. Does it ever bother her like it bothers him?

“She had yellow hair and liked to sing.” And that’s all he has. The Estermonts have countless stories of their Cassana and Robert and the others, but Gendry’s only got the two things. It infuriates him to know he has more of Robert than he does of his mum. He’s in fucking everything Gendry has--his name, his home, even his relationship with Arya has ghosts hanging over it. 

“My mother liked to sing, too,” Arya says contemplatively, cutting through his thoughts. “But it’s hard to remember which ones.”

Gendry never knew which ones. Not even knew the tune. He works his jaw. Then stops when he feels Arya’s fingers slide along it.

“I met Robert,” she says. “When I was a girl. He came to Winterfell.”

He nods. He knows about this from Jon.  _ You’re leaner, you’re shorter.  _

“I barely remember him,” she confesses. “Even though I traveled with him and stayed at the Red Keep. He was loud. I didn’t like him because of what he let happen to Lady. But I don’t feel anything. I don’t think of him when I think of you. He isn’t real.” Arya tilts his chin up. “Your mother’s real. You remember her because you  _ want  _ to.”

“Don’t remember much,” he says, bitter.

“It’s more than what you have of Robert,” Arya says levelly. “Names….even faces, those can be discarded. What you want to hold onto is what survives when nothing else does.”

Gendry looks at her. He doesn’t fully understand her meaning--it’s like he’s missing a piece of a story--but the sentiment is clear enough. And he still fucking hates him, but it’s back to the simmer he’s kept it at for most of his life. “...Are you saying fuck Robert?”

Her lips flicker into a little smile. “And Lyanna. We’re not either of them, and we’re not carrying on their stories.”

Gendry closes his eyes when Arya kisses him. “Good.”

\--

The evening before they’re set to leave, Andrew asks if he can talk to him. Gendry reluctantly agrees, and that’s how he finds himself outside of a small cove, back to where the sand is soft. Andrew finds a spot to sit silently, and Gendry follows suit.

As the sun drops beneath the horizon, it paints the ocean’s surface in broken oranges and pinks. The wind is warm and gentle, not at all like it is at Storm’s End. He sees little black spots break up the water and knows he’s finally seen the turtles Bruno won’t shut up about. 

Whenever Andrew smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkle up and his cheeks show deep dimples. His hand plucks a blade of beach grass and twirls it lazily. And it’s strange. Gendry’s used to the docks of King’s Landing, hot and loud and smelling of shit and sweat and sex. He knows the beaches of Shipbreaker Bay, covered in rocks and grey-washed driftwood. But this--soft, white sand and easy tides--this is all new and foreign to him. 

“Robert liked it here, too,” Andrew observes.

And just like that, the moment’s fucked for Gendry. He scowls, fingers fisting into the sand. “I don’t care what Robert liked.”

Andrew surprises him. “You shouldn’t. He was careless and a drunk. Towards the end I saw little of the cousin I grew up with and loved.” His light brown eyes seek Gendry’s. “I’m sorry for him. I’m sorry for not knowing you. Or your siblings. Now they’re gone.” His shoulders slump. “You were right when you said you weren’t Cassana’s grandson--we didn’t give you the opportunity to be.” 

Gendry stares straight ahead at the turtles, unblinking.

“It’s strange, having you here with Arya. Like another way things could have gone. Because despite Robert’s flaws--and he had many--he did love her,” Andrew says quietly. “Maybe not forever. But he believed in it.”

Gendry’s sick of being compared to dead folk. “We’re not them. And I’m not Robert.”

“You’re not.” He leans back in the sand, eyes trained on the horizon. “I hope you’re happier.”

_ Happier _ . Gendry lets the world roll around in his mind. “Yeah. I am.”

Andrew nods. “I thought so. I know you don’t see us as your family, and that’s your right. But I’d like to get to know you better, if you’d be open to it.”

“How’s that?”

“Ravens, maybe? Or visits between Greenstone and Storm’s End.” Andrew shrugs. “It’d be good, I think, to be in each other’s lives. Hopefully as friends.”

Gendry watches the turtles as they swim.

“I’ll give it a try.”

\--

Eldon doesn’t see them off at the docks, instead grumbling out to Gendry that he “better last longer than the other ones,” which he thinks is a compliment. He says goodbye curtly to Aemon and Alyn, and a little warmer to Lomas, who wraps him up again in one of his stupid bear hugs. Beatrice is thankfully absent.

Andrew’s eyes crinkle in the corners as he says his goodbyes. “Send my love to Marya.”

“Only if that’s all you’re sending,” Davos says with a chuckle as they clasp arms. 

Andrew’s attention moves to Margrat. Now that Gendry knows apparently what Cory knows, he eyes them a little more carefully. Maybe he can leave her here. “Lady Margrat.”

“Ser Andrew.”

“Have good sail.” Andrew closes his eyes. 

Margrat arches a brow. “Have good beach.”

She still offers him her hand to kiss before she walks back onto the ship. Alyn lets out a strangled noise before making a quick exit.

“Well met,” Andrew says to him and Arya when they’re the last two. “Let our next meeting be soon.”

Gendry looks around Greenstone. “Maybe at Storm’s End.”

Andrew laughs before he pulls him into a hug that Gendry reluctantly returns.

\--

They unfurl the sail, and Gendry watches Davos as he goes to the side of the ship. “Ready to go?” He chances.

Davos closes his eyes, letting the spray and smell of the sea wash over him. “Too much time away, I think.” He laughs a little. “Or maybe I’m just getting sentimental in my age. But aye.” He braces his hands on the railing. “Let’s head home.”

They set the course for Cape's Keel.


	27. interlude: davos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been longer! thank you as always for the amazing comments, kudos, and bookmarks <3

As always, seeing Marya makes him feel like a young man again. True, his wife instantly conjures up memories of better and simpler and safer times.

But she can also, rather fast, make him feel like a child deserving a scolding.

She stands on the dock to greet them, her long hair a little more grey now and a hand on her hip.

"You think me magic, Davos?"

Ah. To tread carefully now.

"...in the ways that matter," he says, coming forward to embrace her and quickly kiss both her cheeks. He feels them dimple under his lips and relaxes, knowing he'll yet live another night.

"That explains how you expected me to know your arrival day without a raven." He watches her purse her lips as he steps back.

"Dangerous seas," he says, fighting down a smile. "They've been known to claim a bird a time or two."

"As well as a husband's sense." She rests her hand on the side of his neck and he brings his own to cover it. "Thankfully the waves have no bearing on mine. Supper and rooms are ready. Welcome home."

He closes his eyes, and now there's no hiding his grin. “Truly you are too good for me.”

“Of course I am.” 

Davos looks passed her. “And the boys?”

“Stannis has decided to set sail with your friend Salladhor. Steffon has decided to set sail with Stannis,” Marya says archly as she brushes off her apron. “I imagine they’re nearing Pentos. But Devan is tending to a matter on a nearby farm and will be home by sundown.”

He tries not to let his disappointment show at not seeing his youngest sons, and he’s sure he doesn’t entirely succeed. “I suppose it doesn’t pay for me to discourage such a profession?”

“Not in the least. Now, show me the fine lady who broke our poor Marta’s heart.”

Davos laughs at that, some of the tightness in his chest loosening. It was hard to believe that even two months ago he had been ready to arrange a meeting between Gendry and Marya’s young, unwed cousin. 

“Aye,” Davos takes a step back, an arm easily going around Marya’s waist as they wait for their party to dismount. He sees Arya talking to Gendry on the dock, and nods in her direction. “That’d be her.”

“Well aren’t they a picture?”

“They’re quite taken with one another.”

“Is that a wolf?”

“Aye.”

“Why’s it so big?”

“It’s dire.”

“Ah.”

After a moment, Marya leans against him, whispering into his ear. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say that man is the Hound.”

“That would be him, yes.”

“Where on earth did you pick him up?”

“A long story. Those are Wyldes over there. And a Connington boy.”

“Are you trying to add nobles at every port? Should I be chaining the boys to the docks on your next visit?”

Davos considers. “Maybe just Stannis.”

Marya sighs. “You’ve always had a knack for finding the most interesting of friends.” Her attention sharpens as Gendry and Arya make their way to them. “Milord Gendry, always a pleasure.”

He gives an easier smile than what Davos has seen on him lately. “Hello, Marya.” Gendry’s ears go a bit pink. “This is my wife, Arya.”

Davos smiles when Arya slowly sinks into a curtsy. “Lady Marya. Thank you for hosting us.”

His wife’s bark of a laugh is so loud it scatters the gulls. She juts her elbow into Davos’s side. “You never said she was funny.”

Arya’s grin is small at first, but after a moment it grows. 

\--

It takes him a moment to recognize his son when they approach the courtyard of their home.

“You’ve a beard,” Davos says, eyes wide as he clasps his hands on Devan’s arms. “And about another foot on you.”

At nine and ten, his formerly gangly build has filled out. He’ll always be a thin man, but he’s no longer all knees and elbows, his cheeks and chin dusted with a blond beard a few shades lighter than his hair. The wry smile on his lips only emphasizes the fact that he favors his mother, one cheek dimpling.

“I’ve a beard for years,” he says easily. 

“I suppose now I just see it.”

“Very funny, father.” Devan looks past him to where Gendry and Arya enter, offering a bow that’s more polished and refined than Davos’ would ever be. Unlike Davos, Marya, and Matthos, Devan had been young enough to be raised a proper Lord’s son. Once upon a time, Stannis even permitted him to study alongside Shireen with her maester a time or two. “My Lord Gendry, Lady Arya.”

“Just Gendry’s fine.”

“So is Arya.” She steps forward, smiling. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You as well, Arya.” Devan says cordially. Not for the first time, Davos feels pride at seeing one of his sons so well-mannered. He knows that he’s ready to run their holdings himself, and Davos wonders when it’s time to inform him. Wonders when his son became a man.

No one’s getting younger in Westeros. The thought settles something strange upon Davos, a heavy door closing.

His son looks from Davos to Marya, then clears his throat. “I can show you the grounds, if you’d like.”

Gendry’s gaze flickers to Davos, who purses his lips and raises his brow before he nods. “Aye. We’ve…” In truth, Cape Keel didn’t have much of anything that couldn’t be found anywhere else. “...trees.”

“Trees,” Gendry echoes, deadpan.

“The finest trees. Leafed and all.”

Gendry lets a little laugh escape him, mostly a scoff through his nose, but he shrugs. “Alright then.”

\--

There’s a notable absence after they return and Marya’s ensured they eat three times as much as they usually do. 

“I’m hoping you’ve not left my son in the trees,” he says to Arya and Gendry. 

The pair share a conspiring look that Davos is not sure he’s fond of. 

“Cory asked him to show her a lake,” Arya says neutrally.

Davos frowns, turning to Marya where she sits next to him. “We’ve a lake?”

She smiles. “No.”

“Then-?”

Oh. 

“Ah,” is all he can manage. 

Marya hums. “Don’t be grim, Davos.”

“Hm,” he attempts.

She shakes her head. “It’s a bit of a relief, to be frank. High time he considered marriage and children.” Marya’s tone is good natured as she faces Gendry and Arya. “I imagine you’ll be wanting to start your own family soon enough, aye?”

Davos watches the pair with a smile. No one’s discussed heirs yet, but the whole of the Six Kingdoms attributed the fast betrothal and faster wedding to it. While he knows that’s not the truth of the matter, it makes Davos happy to imagine Storm’s End full of young ones again--the utter, joyful chaos of it all. And all of Storm’s End certainly knew they were trying, if Pod’s list were anything to go by.

What he doesn’t expect is the complete stillness that settles over them both. Davos’ smile fades as neither look at the other, as Gendry stares at a spot on the table intently and Arya’s face is expressionless.

“We haven’t talked about it,” Gendry finally says.

Davos’ brows shoot up. 

Marya tactfully clears her throat. “Ah, well. You’ve just wed.” She pours water. “Now, tell me more about how you punched Ronnet Connington.”

The change of subject is about as subtle as a lightning strike, and it does nothing to quell the sudden tension that hangs over both their heads like the weight of thunder.

\--

The next afternoon, Devan and Gendry are helping him careen one of the Seaworths’ smaller sailing vessels, the _Shireen._ It’s grueling work, but there’s a rhythm to the scraping off of barnacles and the cutting of wood that sets his mind at ease. He’s missed the simplicity of being a sailor, untethered and around things he knows for true. It doesn’t hurt to be accompanied by two of his sons in the task--both Gendry and Devan prying off wooden boards that have submitted to dry rot. It pleased Davos to see the easy sort of friendship between the two, despite Devan being more familiar to courtesies. They all work in companionable silence, until Devan goes to ready some pitch. Once Gendry’s certain he’s out of hearing range, he stops his work.

The silence of it catches Davos’ attention, causing him to look up. Gendry’s staring at his hands, looking uncomfortable.

“Something on your mind?” He prompts, because he’s seen Gendry this way--the silent, painful way he sits and lets bad thoughts circle endlessly in his head.

“I want children,” he mutters, more to himself. Davos has the distinct impression that it’s the first time Gendry’s voiced such things aloud.

“And why does it sound like a bad thing?” 

Gendry turns to him, then, still crouched on the planks. “I don’t know, really.” His face scrunches up. “I didn’t think I’d ever be in a position for it to happen.”

Davos tilts his head, amused, and trying to make this conversation lighter and therefore easier on the boy. “Not from what the soldiers are saying at Storm’s End.”

He makes a coughing noise, ears going pink. “ _That’s not what I meant._ ”

“Aye, I know.” Davos resumes the scraping of barnacles again, hoping that the repetitive sound will put Gendry’s mind at ease as it does his. Davos understands, more than anyone, what it means to be lowborn, with nothing to your name and a family to feed. “Regardless of where you were, you’re a Lord now. Able to provide for any children you might have. To give them names.” The chisel makes a gentle rasp under his hands. “And...as a Lord, you’ve a duty.”

Gendry falls silent, his shoulders hunching. “I don’t want it to be done out of duty.”

“There’s no reason why it _only_ has to be duty.” Davos knows what’s not being said, and so he decides to broach the subject. “You’ve heard Arya’s thoughts on the matter?”

“...no.”

“Perhaps,” Davos states dryly, “It’d be best to begin there.”

“Yeah. Probably.” He looks at him, nervous. “What if…”

Poor boy can’t even finish the question. 

Davos clears his throat. “In my seasoned experience, it’s best to listen to your wife before assuming her decisions.”

Gendry gives a tight nod. 

“When you’re ready,” Davos reminds him gently. “Marya was right, as she usually is. You’ve only just wed. There’s time.”

Davos can’t help but feel that Gendry looks scared. And so he clasps him on the shoulder until he feels Gendry’s tension drain from it.

\--

A few hours later, Davos is walking with Devan back to the fort that has become the Seaworth home, running a rag between his fingers in a modest attempt to remove the pitch and brine. Gendry is ahead of them, seeming more determined than usual for reasons Davos suspects have to do with his Lady.

“So,” Davos begins, because he might as well make an afternoon of asking sons the uncomfortable questions involving women. “I understand you’ve made Cory Wylde’s acquaintance?”

Devan trips over a stone, and were he drinking something Davos would think he were choking. His face becomes cherry-red, eyes wide, and Davos tries to quell the headache blossoming between the eyes.

“She’s of good-humor,” he offers.

“And that’d be your main interest?”

His face turns an even deeper shade of red. Perhaps Davos ought to swat him on the back. The decision is taken from him when their subject of conversation suddenly appears. Today she’s wearing breeches and a low-cut shirt that does nothing to discourage his son’s wandering eyes. Davos is painfully reminded of Jon’s insistence that Daenerys had a good heart.

“I’d like to see the lake again,” she says with authority, and before Devan can answer, her arm is linked with his. “Hello, Davos.”

He feels his age with a vengeance now that he knows for certain there’s no lake involved. “Be careful swimming, lass.”

She smirks and Devan sputters and then they are gone without another word and Davos, for the first time in years, very much wants a nap.

\--

Later in the evening, he and Marya are sitting in a solar, enjoying wine and the easy companionship that distance has done nothing to stop. After a moment, she gets up, goes to his desk, and then approaches him with scrolls in her hands. Unlike him, she’s never learned to read, but she knows enough to recognize seals and what their names look like.

“These came for you while you were away.” She extends her arm over the little table he’s seated at, and he reaches for them. Marya makes herself comfortable sitting across from him, a candle flickering between them.

Davos recognizes the first seal--a crowned stag--and digs his thumbnail into the wax, breaking it easily as his eyes slowly read the missive from Podrick.

_Davos,_

_I thought it was a good idea to send ravens to Cape’s Keel, hopefully they arrive before you and not after. From what I understand, it seems the travelling schedule somewhat changed after your stop to Griffin’s Roost._

He sighs deeply, hand padding out for the carafe of wine before him. Marya snorts as she takes it, fills her own glass, then his. He lifts it to her in thanks, taking a long pull.

_The affairs of Storm’s End continue as normal. Textile merchants from Weeping Town have arrived again to protest the amount of tariffs being paid to House Whitehead, but I assured them they are standard and no one’s been cheated. We’ve received ravens from the northern holdings requesting more details about the progress. I have sent them on with other ravens to you. It felt an overstep to address the marcher lords without Gendry’s input. As you and Brienne are both with him, it seemed more efficient this way._

_As you requested, I’ve started looking into docking records of Storm’s End to see if any have recently arrived from Essos. Nothing is out of the ordinary, all merchant and fishing ships having kept regular logs for years on end._

_I’m glad for everyone’s good health in spite of the attacks. I’ve also given Gendry’s raven to Ronard’s family. On their behalf, I’ve written their dictated letter of gratitude for saving his sword--it was the first one his son ever made in the smithy._

_I’ll send any other matters of import onto the rookery at Weeping Town._

_Warmly,_

_Podrick Payne_

_(You may also want to inform Gendry and Arya that their friend Hot Pie is being courted by a smith from the village. There’s complaints that he’s baking less, but he seems happier for it)_

Davos folds the letter in half, fighting down his frustration. He had no illusions that unearthing the source of the Essosi sellswords would be a simple matter, but a foolish part of him hoped otherwise.

“All’s well?” Marya asks, seemingly already knowing the answer as she sips from her glass.

“I wish I could say for certain.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “We encountered a considerable amount of sellswords on the road.”

Marya’s lips press together. “Aye, Devan read your raven to me.”

“And I’ve no idea where to start looking. The Stormlands are kinder than King’s Landing, but I’d not put them past wanting to upset a young Lord’s equally young rule.”

She nods, jutting her chin to the stack. “Might as well get it all over with.”

The corner of his lip lifts up with no humor as he moves to the next: blue wax, stamped with a buckle. 

_Ser Davos,_

_We’ve heard rumors that Lord Baratheon’s progress is moving sooner than anticipated after Griffin’s Roost. At your convenience, we would have word about your party’s movements to better prepare for your arrival._

_Lord Ralph Buckler_

It would seem the Conningtons spared no time in circulating the nature of their visit. Davos makes a mental note to write to Pod on spreading words of their own.

He sees a maelstrom somewhere in the middle of the pile and reaches for it next, hoping it’s something to soothe his annoyance with both the Conningtons and Bucklers.

_Davos,_

_Andrew Estermont sent word that he’d like to discuss a betrothal to Margrat. One down, two to go. Save one for House Whitehead, they’ve had quite a prosperous trade season. House Rogers is also acceptable, but be sure to confirm they’ve actually an amber mine and they’re not simply blowing smoke up the Stormlands’ ass._

_Casper_

Davos does not understand how Andrew found himself so quickly moved to marriage after avoiding it for nearly forty years, but he supposes it’s good. Truth be told, he had mind to recommend him as the new Lord of Dragonstone to Gendry, but imagined it’d best be left to the rest of the progress before he offers any encouragement one way or the other.

And, judging by his son’s attentions, perhaps there was only one more Wylde to wed.

He pours over the next few ravens: the mirrored swans from House Swann, the lightning from House Dondarrion. All simple requests for travel updates (thankfully without mention of the Conningtons). It’s not until he comes across a message sealed in brown wax without crest that he frowns. The wax is splattered, as though dripped in a hurry, and there is no greeting, no indication of sender. The handwriting is scratchy and blotted:

_The North is no friend to you_

Davos forehead wrinkles into a frown. 

“That one looks worse,” Marya says quietly.

The letter is folded carefully and placed into his belt. “Aye, I believe it is.”

“What is it?”

“Only a sentence, no sender.” He slowly strokes his chin. “‘The North is no friend to you.’”

Marya matches his frown. “The Starks?”

“I believe so.” He’s slow in saying the next words. “There are those unhappy with Gendry marrying into the King’s family. And seeing the Baratheons join houses with the Starks.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I imagine I’ll be having a conversation I’d rather not have,” he admits, the flame of the candle flickering between them.

\--

“So you don’t even know who sent it?” Gendry says with a scowl, arms crossed over his chest and stare hard and, aye, this is a conversation he’d rather not be having.

The pair of them are together in a private study, rain pouring hard outside and the sky that green shade it gets before thunder. “No. But we need to consider it.”

“Why should I care?” There’s heat to the question, but Davos also hears the genuine worry underneath it. Once again, Davos sees the deep affection Gendry has for his wife. It is wonderful as it is difficult, for he knows discussing the Starks will always be a challenge where Gendry Baratheon is concerned.

“It could be nothing,” he says again, to make sure his meaning is clear: _I want it to be nothing._ “Some nobles upset at the marriage, maybe.”

“Arya wouldn’t do anything to endanger Storm’s End.”

“I know.” And he does. Whatever reservations he had about the union have long been dispelled. “But there are games being played that we don’t know, Gendry. And it won’t do for us to blind ourselves to them.”

“I’m tired of this shit.”

“We’re only wading deeper into it.”

Gendry works his jaw. His fists are clenched, and he looks like he’d rather be flipping over a table than asking his next, level question. “Who should I be careful with?”

And it’s moments like this that Davos realizes Gendry is truly growing into a Lord in his own right. Davos would be the last to argue that Ronnet Connington didn’t deserve a good beating, but it hadn’t made things easier for Gendry’s lordship. It settled Davos to see him want to understand the situation clearer.

“Conningtons, obviously,” he starts. “They’ve never held love for Robert, and were quick to pledge to the Lannisters following Black-” Davos closes his eyes. “Following Stannis’ defeat.” 

“Who else?”

“Anything else is only a guess, mind. It’s more important than ever that we keep level heads. But I’d tread carefully with any who left Stannis or Renly for Lannisters.” He sighs. “I’ll not lie to you lad, House Buckler concerns me most.”

“I thought they were loyal to Stannis.”

“Brus was,” Davos says, “But the head of House I fear is not so honorable as his cousin.”

“You think they’d want us to turn against the Starks, then? Is that it?” 

“I’ve no idea for certain. But most the Starks are in King’s Landing, the only one in the North is Sansa--if we’re to take the warning literally.”

They sit with that for a moment. Gendry sighs, running his hand over his head starting from the back of it.

“I’ll talk to Arya,” is what he finally says.

“Of course.”

Gendry meets his gaze. “If I have to choose between Arya and Stormland nobles, I choose her. I don’t care what that means.”

Davos sends him a wry grin. “I think anyone with eyes would know it.”

Gendry nods, but the look of concern doesn’t leave his expression.

\--

As the time to move on to Weeping Town grows closer, Davos watches his son and Cory. Sees the way she sometimes gives him shoves and he laughs and he knows there’s no stopping a girl that determined. He thinks of his wife’s words, about his now oldest son being ready for a family of his own. It’s as though he’s realizing, for the first time, that life hasn’t waited for him as he traversed the continent in the name of a crown that mattered little to him in the first place.

But the feeling of foreboding hovers over them all, and Davos in good conscience can’t find his footing in his old life before he helps untangle the one he currently leads.

\--

In the evenings, he only spends time with his wife. The breeze is gentle and warm, the boats tied to the dock bobbing in the water’s movements. Davos brings his drink to his lips, grinning as he closes his eyes for a moment and hears the birds.

“Marya?”

“Hm?”

“Devan’s ready to run our holdings on his own. Stannis is wanting to make his way to Pentos, and Steffon’s no longer a child.” His eyes narrow against the light from the setting sun. “When I think of you and the boys, lately it’s only of the things I’ve missed. Even with Matthos. There’s so much that’s passed.”

Marya watches him, wary, and how is he for a husband to make his wife so cautious? “What are you meaning to say?”

Always nothing less than a straight answer for her. Davos’ shoulders rise then fall. “I’m finding myself weary of being needed by the wrong people.” His eyes seek hers, willing her to understand. “Stannis, then Daenerys. I’ve no more interest in finding or fighting for thrones.”

“And Gendry?” Her lips purse. “I’ll eat my shoe if that particular lad’s wanting for a crown.”

“I’d eat the other one.” He lowers his chin in thought. “...he’s my son as much as our boys.”

She looks at him with understanding. “You know I won’t keep you from Storm’s End, or King’s Landing, or bloody Eastwatch if that’s where you’re needed. I’ve long since remedied what it means to be a wife to a seafarer.”

“Aye, and I don’t know where you’ve found the patience for it.”

“I’m quite comfortable in being alone,” she says honestly, holding up a hand. “Perhaps that’s not what is gentle for you to hear, but there is quite enough for me to stave off any pining should the need arise.”

Her eyes sparkle with humor, and Davos can’t help but laugh. “Then I am lucky in finding a wife who doesn’t need a husband, for I think I’ve been a poor one.”

“Sometimes,” she agrees. “But you’ve never been anything but a good father.”

“Thank you for saying so.”

“I never say anything for thanks, as you well know.” Her tone softens. “You worry you favor one boy over the others, is that it?”

“Yes.” And that’s the heart of it. He reaches for her hand, and she meets him, fingers interlacing. “But Gendry is threatened at every corner and…”

“And he needs you to keep him out of it,” she finishes. “And you see too much of yourself in a Flea Bottom boy who suddenly finds himself a Lord.” At his expression, she only raises a brow. “I _do_ know you, Davos.”

They sit in silence for awhile, as Davos tries to let his troubled thoughts find a grounding. “He needs my help,” he settles on.

“Then provide it.”

His heart swells with affection at the easy way she says it. There’s no bitterness, no anger. They are both pragmatic people at their core, notions of romance better left to the songs and the lords and ladies within them. “But after…” he starts hesitantly. “After this progress, I’m thinking I would like to know my grandchildren.”

Marya smiles, the expression guarded but honest. “I’m thinking they would like that. Figurative though they are.”

“Not if the Wylde lass has anything to say about it.”

Marya snorts. “The Gods save our Devan.”

“Perhaps we ought to extend that to all of Cape’s Keel.”

“Perhaps we ought to build a sept before she moves in.”

They share a grin and a laugh, and he feels lighter again. Davos breathes in deep the sea air, his thumb stroking the back of his wife’s hand as he lets himself think of a future full of nothing but evenings like this. It’s a strange thought, but a comforting one.

He listens to the tides move, steady and calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> house wylde locks it down.


	28. weeping town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you for reading and commenting <3 ilu all

“They’re so weird,” Gendry mutters, crossing his arms.

The Hound grunts beside him. Both watch as Bruno picks Cory up, Margrat rolling her eyes in the background. 

They were saying their goodbyes.

Davos stands on the other side of Gendry, looking concerned. “Almost afraid to leave them unattended.”

“Worst she’ll do is fuck him,” the Hound says with a shrug. 

Davos sends him a dry look. “What a difficult conclusion to come to.”

Gendry rolls his eyes, reaching up to pet Rusty Horse’s nose. Having sailed past the worst of the rainswood, they were safe to use the roads down to Weeping Town. Despite himself, Gendry was excited for it. He’d missed the city life, things to go out and see beside gloomy rocks and angry seas. And fucking crags.

“Well. Better now than…” Davos doesn’t finish the sentence, stepping forward to say his goodbyes to his wife, son, and soon-to-be good-daughter. Cory squeals and jumps, and Davos barely has time to extend his arms to catch her.

Gendry looks up. The Hound looks down.

Both of them sigh.

\--

It’s a little over a day’s ride from Cape’s Keel to Weeping Town, and Gendry watches Arya as they ride. She’s further up front, framed by her squire and Bruno, the latter of which is telling a story that has Arya laughing and even Ronald smiling. The sun hits her hair, and everytime she laughs it’s a slow thing, like her face is trying to catch up to her brain. Gendry’s expression softens.

He needs to talk to her.

Rusty Horse lets out a long snort, and Gendry glares down at him.

“I’m  _ trying, _ ” he insists.

“Trying what?"

Gendry’s eyes roll up to the sky. This is the last person he would ever  _ ever  _ want to have this conversation with. “Why’s it even matter to you?”

“It don’t,” the Hound says flatly. 

And then he’s just. Fine. With leaving it there. All...hanging. Gendry and the Hound’s horses ride in step with one another. Gendry scowls down at his hands as they clutch the reins. Then he hazards a glance at the Hound. He’s using the tip of his tongue to get something out of his gross teeth and ugh. Why’s he doing this? He shouldn’t do this. But what the fuck.

“Hound?”

“What?”

“You ever want kids?”

Within half a second: “Get the fuck away from me.”

Within the other half of that second: “Yeah, that’s probably for the best.”

Maybe it’s not too late for him to catch up to Davos.

\--

Arya and him sit next to each other when they make camp for the night. It’s still summer, but it’s clear the chill’s on its way. Gendry thinks of his time back in Winterfell and scowls at the thought of freezing his balls off once again. At least he’s back in the south, where temperatures change the way they’re supposed to.

...and he’s thinking about the weather so he doesn’t have to think about what he’s been trying to think about. He thinks. Shit. 

“It’s getting cold,” Arya says. She rests her hands between her knees, leaning forward toward the fire.

“Yeah. Winter is-” Gendry stops. He’s not going to say it. “On its way.”

Arya shoots him a small smile. He gives one back.

Then he breathes in. Alright. 

“Arya-”

“Gendry-”

He stops. She stops. 

“Go ahead,” Arya says.

Gendry stares at her, wishing he could just  _ say the stupid words.  _ “Weeping Town’s not far,” he finishes weakly.

Arya watches him for a moment, then looks back at the fire. “About another day.”

Gendry nods tightly. And that’s all they really say for awhile.

\--

That night, he wraps his arm around Arya, pressing her back into his chest. Gendry wonders if she’ll say no. And how he’d feel about it, if she did.

\--

Weeping Town smells a lot better than King’s Landing, he’ll give it that much. As it comes into view the first thing he can make out are the round, green tops of trees interspersed with triangular points of roofs. They might’ve been slate colored at one point, but now they all had moss growing over them. As they get closer, he sees that the buildings are staggered down to the shoreline like going down a set of stairs. The docks are full of merchant ships and a marketplace, and out further in the ocean Gendry can make out the sails of fishing boats.

Soon, they’re near enough to listen to what Gendry’s missed: city life. He can hear people yelling at each other, kids playing, haggling in the market, and he makes out the sweet song of steel being forged somewhere. It makes him feel better to have noise.

“The keep of House Whitehead is further up the horizon.” Davos points above the treeline. “See it?”

Gendry follows, and he can make out a manor of some kind. It’s rectangle-shaped, made out of white stone, positioned to overlook the city. A watchtower.

“You know him?” Gendry asks.

Davos shakes his head. “Bit of a recluse, from what I’ve heard. Would rather stay in his home counting coin than head to court. He  _ is  _ titled as a knight, but since his father’s death hasn’t ventured outside the city walls.” He sits in thought for a minute. “By all accounts, Weeping Town has done well under his oversight. Quite a lot of growth in trade over the last year.”

Gendry nods, remembering the textile merchants regularly visiting Storm’s End. He’ll take weird, quiet knights over fucks like Ronnet. Even more so when they’re actually doing their job. 

As they ride, there’s a clear fork in the road. One moving down into the city, and the other heading to Weeping Tower. Gendry already knows which way they have to go and he’d rather not.

Arya and Nymeria move closer to him. “We’ll sneak out.”

Gendry grins.

\--

His first impression of Addam Whitehead is that it looks like he hasn’t seen the sun in awhile. His skin is like milk, and with light hair and eyes he almost looks like a ghost. When he moves, it’s slowly, like weights are tied to his wrists and ankles. Maybe he is a bloody ghost. It’d fit the tower part, at least. 

“Welcome, Lord Baratheon,” he says, and Gendry’s thrown by how  _ young  _ he sounds. It makes him re-evaluate, and Gendry’d eat his hat if he was any older than Bruno. “Weeping Town welcomes you.” His eyes slide (slowly) to Arya. “You as well, my Lady.”

She bows her head. 

Gendry’s getting tired of new people all the time, so he just nods quickly. Davos clears his throat, and Gendry gives a little grunt before he nods slower and adds: "Thanks."

Addam looks at their party with a flat sort of interest. Like he's curious but not enough to ask about anything. Maybe this one'll be alright.

"We've food for your men prepared in the gatehouse, as well as for yourself and your party in the dining hall." Addam yawns. "My castellan will show you to your quarters and my servants have set up some games for entertainment on the second floor. I've made my personal study available to you, as well as my rookery should you need to send or receive any messages. There are two libraries: one on the fourth floor and another on the sixth. We also have a smith, maester, and several stablehands should you desire to resupply or attend to any other matters. I shall make my accounts and ledgers available to you tomorrow for review. They will be in the fourth floor library by midday. I also have minstrels and bards on retainer should you like them for entertainment-" Addam yawns again. Gendry opens his mouth-

"-activities of particular note in Weeping Town include the market square which has imports from all seven kingdoms, Essos, the Summer Isles, and even trade goods from beyond the Wall via Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. There are also mummers who regularly perform on Netted Road, a variety of inns and taverns, horse races just outside the western city line, and several specialists of craft." Addam blinks. "Is that a wolf?"

Nymeria, the size of a small horse, gives a short bark.

"Yeah. It's a wolf," Gendry confirms.

"Ah," Addam starts. "For wolves in Weeping Town we have the following activities-"

"We'll figure it out," Arya says quickly.

Addam bows. “Then I hope you enjoy your stay. Let me know if you have need of me, otherwise I’ll be in my study on the fifth floor.”

“Sure.”

The head of House Whitehead and the Lord of Weeping Town leaves without any other ceremony. Gendry leans toward Davos.

“He’s not married, right?”

“No.”

“No other family members?”

“No.”

“Thank fuck.”

Davos doesn’t laugh, but he doesn’t sigh either, so Gendry knows he agrees.

\--

The next afternoon, Arya and Gendry sneak out from Weeping Tower and go into the city. Walking side by side down the streets, Gendry’s strongly reminded of their time in King’s Landing, eating rat on a stick and sitting at the docks. It’s similar but different. For one, the air is cleaner but damp and heavy, and for another, Weeping Town has more in its stalls than vermin.

“Not oysters,” Arya says quietly but firmly when he goes to try one. He shrugs, putting it back. The thing looked slimey and too much like slugs anyway.

Despite the conversation he’s been avoiding, it’s nice. The sky is overcast, but there’s no sign of rain yet, and the people here are a perfect balance of busy and disinterested. For the first time since they’ve left Storm’s End, Gendry feels like they actually get to be alone. One of his arms goes around her waist, and she looks up at him.

“So,” he asks, “Where to first?”

\--

Gendry’s never been to a mummer’s show. He’s heard of them, of course, but Flea Bottom was never an attractive neighborhood, what with people being unable to pay for anything and all. Arya steps up to the top row in the stands, and he follows after. Figures it’s polite for him to be in the back, being tall.

“This is fun?” He asks with thick skepticism. Mummers were only a side-step from minstrels, after all.

“Sometimes,” Arya says. “It can be sad, too.” 

He doesn’t get it. “Why would you want to sit and watch something sad?”

“Sad can be beautiful.” Arya leans against his side, and he puts an arm around her shoulders. His joint is still tender, but like Cory promised, it’s on its way to healing fully.

Gendry frowns at the statement. If that’s the case, he hasn’t seen it. Sad was just sad. But Arya almost never asks to do anything outside of train lately, and so he lets it go and attempts to brace himself for what he won’t like.

Music starts, and a yellow curtain rises.

He’s right, he doesn’t like it. Too many of the characters have the same name, someone becomes king out of nowhere, and the main lady sails off on a boat to go west of Westeros. Gendry’s not great at maps, but he’s pretty sure if he turned left enough, he’d just get turned around. Because that’s how direction worked.

But he  _ does  _ like listening to Arya laugh, so when it’s over and she asks how he liked it, he just shrugs and says: “Wasn’t bad” with a grin.

\--

After they walk around more, exploring the city together, Arya drags him into an inn called the Drunken Dornishman. There, they order two ales and some stew and Gendry’s thinking he doesn’t have a lot of time left to run away from the discussion they need to have.

“You look like you want to say something,” Arya states between spoons, grey eyes flickering up to meet his.

Gendry squirms in his seat. But he doesn’t lie. “Yeah, I do.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Thinking through it.”

“Why would you need to think?” 

“Because I’m not always a stupid bull, alright?” He says, a little shorter than normal. Arya doesn’t seem rattled. If anything she seems more curious. And suddenly he’s with that little pain in the ass in the Riverlands who could never let anything go. He glares at her for a few moments while she watches him in amusement, and gradually his temper fades but the fear is still there.

She reaches her hand out, resting it on his forearm like she did when she first got to Storm’s End. “You can tell me,” Arya says levelly.

Yeah, he can. He knows he can. Maybe he is stupid. 

Toward the back of the inn, one man sits down with a fiddle. Another with a drum.

“It’s just something Marya said,” he settles on. Almost shy, his gaze darts up to judge her reaction. Arya doesn’t look any different than she has all day. Gendry rolls the words around in his mind.

A third man clears his voice.

His face is screwed up in thought and it’s making the space between his brows wrinkle. “And I talked to Davos about it.”

“And what did Davos say?”

“He said-”

Someone hits a drum, and the noise reverberates around the room. Fucking  _ musicians.  _ Gendry pivots in his seat to properly glare at them, but then they start singing.

 

“ _ The griffin’s spit was red, for out its beak a tooth, _

_ His luck to have a head _ ,  _ only out its beak a tooth, _

_ The roost made a maiden’s bed, for therein sleeps no cocks, _

_ So pour us that good ale, good ale, and we’ll bring it a tale.” _

 

Gendry pauses. “Is this song talking shit about Ronnet?”

Arya grins. Her hand hasn’t left his arm. “Yes.”

“Finally one I like.”

 

_ “Twas the Maid of Tarth, who tore the griffin’s stones, _

_ But bring us in good ale, to hear of that feathered dunce; _

_ Bring us in all good ale, good ale, and bring us in good ale, _

_ We’ll sing of the she-wolf’s take, but bring us in good ale!” _

 

The musicians pointedly gesture to their tankards, which causes the serving girl to sigh before dutifully filling them. Gendry groans.

“You’re always the she-wolf.”

Arya crooks her lips in amusement. “I am.”

“I’ll beat them to death with their own lutes.”

“No one brought a lute.”

“Well whatever they’ve got, then.”

 

“ _ The griffins had a chick, an angry sort of lad, _

_ Kissed by fire like his da, full of hot air--fighting mad!  _

_ And bring us in good ale, good ale, and bring us in good ale, _

_ For the she-wolf’s part of it, bring us in good ale!”  _

 

The serving girl comes back, scowling, and refills their tankards. 

“I don’t think they’re very good musicians,” Gendry observes.

“They’re not.” Arya leans forward. “What were you saying?”

“Hold on. I want to make sure you’re not pissing on anything again.”

“If I am?”

“Like I said. Lutes.”

 

“ _ Down came the she-wolf’s maw, around the small chick’s neck, _

_ The prey fell out the nest, taken without nary a peck, _

_ But bring us in good ale, good ale-” _

 

“NO!” Yells the innkeeper from the back of the room. “NO MORE!”

The singer looks startled, and the musicians all stare at each other before quickly going to the last line.

 

_ “The she-wolf took his get, and the Maiden his dick!” _

 

Gendry grins at Arya. She grins back. Then they both break into laughter, trying and failing to cover it by drinking from their mugs.

After it dies down, Arya sets her mug on the table and tilts her head. “You were going to tell me what Davos said?”

Gendry nods. He can. 

But the sun is also starting to go down.

“You want to head back?” He offers, very much not wanting to.

“No. We’ll stay.” Arya sends him an understanding look. “And talk about whatever you want.”

\--

The innkeeper grins slyly at them. "You're in luck, we have one room available."

"Thanks," Arya says, watching as the woman grabs a brass key.

She turns to them, the key snapping to the counter with a heavy click. "There is one thing you should know first…"

She looks at Gendry, then Arya, then slides the key towards them with two fingers. "There's only one bed."

Gendry just grabs the key. As he turns to face Arya, he doesn't notice the innkeeper’s shocked then crestfallen expression. 

\--

The door’s barely swung closed behind him when her fingers grab into his shirt and pull him down. He responds enthusiastically, hands on her hips and kissing her hard. Arya parts her lips and he follows, his hands now fumbling for the end of her shirt because he loves Arya all the time, but he likes her naked-

And  _ shit _ . Shit no. Fuck.

Arya’s fingers start undoing the knot of his belt, and he stops his hands but can’t quite stop kissing her yet-

She moves to his belt.

Gods damned it. 

“Arya,” he mutters.

“What?” She replies, voice thick with the impatience she always has before sex.

Gendry’s so pissed at himself, but he takes a half-step back. Arya frowns when he does so. 

“What?” She asks again, less impatient and more concerned now. Her hands drop from his belt.

“I can’t have sex with you unless you know…” Gendry sees the quick flicker of hurt across her features, and he’s a fucking idiot for making her think anything’s wrong for even a second. It’s what makes him spit out the words he’s been tripped over all week.

“I think I want kids.” He sighs, stopping himself. “No, I  _ do  _ want them. Maybe a lot of them. I don’t know.”

He watches her expression carefully. Arya’s eyes are wide in a way he’s not sure what to do with. Gendry’s heart is all up in his throat and he’s only felt this way once before: when one of his knees was pressed into the cold ground and Arya was holding a bow in her hand. Fuck. Don’t let it go like that again. He can’t go through it again. He  _ can’t _ . Gendry swallows hard, meeting his wife’s gaze.

“Arya, I...I want my family to be  _ with  _ you.”  

He doesn’t know what he expects her to say. He hadn’t asked a question. Maybe she’ll still give an answer of no. Or ignore it. Or shove him. Or...or leaves. Gendry’s gone over every terrible response in his mind ever since his talk with Davos that the last thing he expects is the quiet syllable she gives him.

“When?”

His pulse seems to leap. “Whenever you’d want.”

Arya nods, but it’s not in agreement. Just letting him know she’s heard. “I’ve been thinking about it, too. Ever since Marya asked.”

“Do you…?”

“I knew it would come up before I married you,” she starts. “You’re Lord Paramount and last of the Baratheons-”

“You know I don’t give a flying fuck about-”

“-and there aren’t many Starks left, either.” Arya looks into his eyes, asking him to understand something. “Sansa won’t marry again, no one knows if Bran’s even  _ Bran  _ anymore, and…” she clears her throat, and he’s surprised by the pain in her voice. “They say Daenerys can’t have children.”

“Why’s any of that matter?” He asks, trying not to be upset. It’s  _ the one thing  _ he wants them to just decide for themselves. He brings a hand to cup the side of her face.

Arya bites down on her lower lip, one of her hands clutches his wrist lightly. “They could be used.” 

The word makes rage fill his chest in a way he’s never experienced before. “Used  _ how _ ?”

“Right now, there’s no heirs.” Arya closes her eyes. “But there’ll be crowns.”

Gendry doesn’t want to think about what she’s saying. Because that’s not what they’re supposed to be talking about. They should be talking about  _ them.  _ What  _ they  _ want. “I don’t care about that shit.”

“It’s there whether you care about it or not.”

“I’m not an idiot,” he bites out. “But I’m not asking the Princess of the Six Kingdoms or Lady Stark or Baratheon or whatever else. I just want to talk to my wife.”

Arya keeps her eyes closed. Gendry rests his forehead against hers. “Can we? Just  _ talk _ ?”

She nods, then moves to sit on the bed. He follows suit. After a moment, they both lay back, side-by-side as they stare up at the ceiling.

“You go first,” he mutters after a long stretch of silence.

“Now’s not a good time,” she states. “Not until we know that the Stormlands are safe and we don’t have to worry about Daenerys.”

“That’s fair,” he agrees. “Do you want them at all?”

“It’s hard to imagine,” Arya says honestly. “It’s been so long since I’ve known any other kind of life.”

He nods. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in. She lets herself be moved, check resting against his chest. “We do now, though. Have another kind of life.”

Arya doesn’t move or say anything, but Gendry knows she’s listening. She’s always listening, that’s why she had that nickname with the smallfolk. “We’ve got an army and Storm’s End. We’d keep them safe.”

Arya’s voice is quiet and sad. “Nowhere’s safe.”

Gendry supposes she’d know about that kind of betrayal better than him. His life before they were on the run was just as shitty as it was after. But Arya had a home, once. Parents and siblings and a castle. 

“Best we can, then,” he amends.

They’re quiet together, each in their own thoughts. Gendry draws in a breath through his nose.

“Arry...just tell me if it’s a no.”

He feels her lips move against his chest. 

“It’s not a no.”

\--

The next morning, something’s changed between them but it’s not a bad thing. If anything, it’s nicer. It feels better to be waiting for an answer rather than not asking the question. As they head back to Weeping Tower, they see Bruno wrestling with Nymeria in the mud near the gates, Ronald watching with open disgust. The Hound sits closer to them, wetting a sword across his lap. 

“Have fun on your little trip?” The Hound asks with derision, not even looking up from the blade.

“Have fun babysitting?” Arya counters.

The Hound just snorts. “Tell your wolf to eat them both.”

At the mention, Nymeria effortlessly shoves Bruno away and rushes them. Arya laughs when Nymeria knocks her onto her back, dragging her tongue over Arya’s face. Gendry thinks it’s gross. Which is probably why he doesn’t own a wolf.

Over Arya and Nymeria, the Hound meets Gendry’s eyes. He scoffs at whatever he sees there, going back to his blade without another word. Gendry would tell him there’s a way to do it better, but he already knows how  _ that  _ would go. 

\--

That afternoon, while Arya’s with Brienne and the Hound training, Gendry starts reviewing the books and coffers. A repeating petition he’s heard in Storm’s End were arguments over tariffs on shipping--particularly from the textile merchants. Because of this, Gendry spends extra time reviewing those numbers. But it all looks standard. He frowns, making a note of it. He frowns again when he looks at the coffers.

“Thought you said Weeping Town was prospering?”

Across from him, Davos looks up. “It is.”

“Not a lot different about the coffers than anywhere else.”

“Not a rarity in trade, lad. Gold’s often invested back in the ships.”

That made sense. But Gendry’s brain still snags on the shipping tariffs. Why would merchants be complaining if their taxes were the same  _ and  _ they were getting better investment into their ships?

He makes another note before he’s forced to move onto the next book.

\--

Aside from Cape Keel, Gendry thinks he likes their stay at Weeping Town the most. Addam Whitehead had as much interest in their presence as watching paint drying, and Gendry was happy to finally be left the fuck alone by nobles. 

In the morning, he kept up his sparring with Arya. They seemed to have reached a silent truce not to talk further about children until they had a better idea of what they wanted to say. So his time was spent being sweaty and thrown on his back--he preferred the version of it that happened when no one else was using the yard.

During the day, he practiced his reading and writing with Margrat and Davos. He hated to admit it, but he was learning better with her there. After a few days, she started teaching him how to better read maps and even draw some of his own. It wasn’t the same as having Pod, but it wasn’t terrible, either. 

When he wasn’t working on his letters, he returned to balancing the accounts of House Whitehead. They were meticulous, so a lot of it was just double checking. Aside from the strange issue with shipping, everything else was so clearly in order that Gendry felt he was wasting time.

During the evenings, everyone opted to be in the city rather than holed up in the Tower. Bruno enjoyed mummer’s shows almost as much as Arya, and Ronald faked his interest almost as well as Gendry when they all went to another one. The Hound and Brienne even made the use of their time in trade center, both going to an herbalist and returning with Good Earth for Gendry’s shoulder and Sandor’s hip. Gendry even had time to walk down their version of the Street of Steel and silently judge all the other smiths.

Weeping Town was  _ easy,  _ all things considered. Even with the question hanging between them.

They sit by the docks on their last full day in town, Gendry’s head in Arya’s lap. Her fingers run over his short hair and the end of her braid tickles his face when she leans over. She tells him stories about Braavos until he feels himself slip off into a nap. 

\--

Everyone’s set for their next stop in Mistwood, less than half a day’s journey away. Their parting with Addam had been just as dry as their greeting, and now all they were waiting on was Davos.

He finally comes out, a small frown on his face as he descends the steps leading out from the rookery.

“Everything alright?” Gendry asks.

“Aye, just hoping to catch one of Podrick’s ravens. Fear we’ve missed him this time.”

Not the first. It was hard to figure out how to time ravens with being on the road. “Where’s the next one supposed to be?”

“Blackhaven. Just sent a raven to Storm’s End to let him know. Gives us a few extra weeks.” Davos smiles at him. “I’ve a feeling you’ll quite like Lady Mertyns.”

“Why’s that?”

“Last time I saw her, she was throwing a ham bone at Ronnet’s head during a feast.”

Gendry snorts. He did already like her. As Davos seats his horse and they begin their journey north, Gendry can’t help the smirk on his face.

“Davos?”

“Aye?”

“Want to hear the song I’ve just learned?”

“How’s it go?”

Gendry makes sure Ronald’s sufficiently out of hearing range before he starts. Because despite himself, he doesn't hate Ronald all that much. “ _ The griffin’s spit was red, for out its beak a tooth-!” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song was based on an actual medieval song that asked for booze every other line. get it together, feudalism.


	29. interlude: podrick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mind the fic tags :( warnings this chapter for the warning

Pod rereads the raven for what has to be the fourth or fifth time. 

“Surprised?” Rolland asks beside him, sounding as grim and tired as he always does.

He shakes his head. “I wish I was.” The letter is short, but the red wax with the griffin stamped into it had been enough:

_ Lord Ronnet Connington requests an audience in the next sennight, to discuss recent events at Griffin’s Roost. _

Pod frowns. He always hates it when people don’t include a proper salutation in ravens. “I’m not sure why he doesn’t want to wait for Gendry to get back.”

“Probably because it’s another half a year,” Rolland says. “ ‘s a long time to be pissed off.”

Or, Pod thinks a little less kindly, Ronnet thinks he can pull one over Podrick more easily. “I suppose you’re right.” 

Dutifully, even though he doesn’t want to, Podrick starts to write a response. Rolland hovers over his shoulder, watching his penstrokes with strange attention. Podrick knows for a fact that Rolland can read and write--managing Storm’s End while Gendry was gone was his primary duty, after all. 

The raven Pod sends back is brief and to the point:

_ Ser Ronnet Connington, _ _   
_ _ Storm’s End is happy to treat with you. Please note that Lord Baratheon is now in southern Cape Wrath and unable to attend personally. Should it not cause offense, I will meet you in his stead. _

_ Regard,  
_ _ Podrick Payne _

Pod sighs as he leans against a wall in the rookery. “We had better prepare for guests.”

Rolland grunts, doing a mock bow. “At your service.”

Pod grins, despite himself.

\--

The next few days at Storm’s End pass as they usually do: Podrick works with the guards and manages the smaller petitions as they arrive. In the afternoons, he’s usually able to steal away to the village for a few hours.

More often than not, he finds himself at Hot Pie’s. He’s just invented some kind of crescent bread that’s the best thing Pod’s ever had.

“What’s got you all mad?” Hot Pie asks, setting a few of the rolls down in front of him before pouring a glass of ale.

Ronnet. Pod pinches either end of the roll, pulling it apart in the middle. Steam wafts up from it and he inhales with a stupid grin. “Hard to be mad, now.”

Hot Pie smiles big. “It’s because of the lard-”

Pod happily chews instead of listening. Since Hot Pie can talk for quite a long time, this means he gets extra bread to eat, which is the last thing Pod’ll ever complain about.

“-and Meg’s made me these hollowed-out moulds that put all these little buns in a circle. Like a bun...cake? Haven’t tried it yet, but I’m planning to.” Hot Pie leans against the counter, lowering his voice in conspiracy. “Thanks for reading her them poems for me, by the way.”

Pod smiles. A month ago, Hot Pie asked for his help in getting Meg’s attention. Having apparently remembered that Pod’s number was twelve, it seemed like he was the expert in the village at wooing ladies. Pod suggested songs or poetry. Hot Pie said music made her mad, so they worked on some poems together--Hot Pie dictating while Pod wrote and later recited them. Meg must have truly liked Hot Pie, because they were horrendous. 

“I’m glad they worked.”

Hot Pie’s eyebrows raise as he vigorously nods. “Worked  _ real  _ well. She made me  _ five  _ cooking sheets and  _ three  _ new racks not a sennight ago.” 

Pod laughs. There’s someone for everyone.

\--

After Hot Pie’s, he stops by Willis and Jocie’s. Gendry asked him to check in every once in a while, and to make sure Berta was helping Jocie with her pregnancy. Pod made it a habit to stop by twice a week, and during that time, he developed a quick friendship with Jocie.

“What’ve you got for me this time?” She asks, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. At a little over four months, she’s starting to have to straighten her back a lot and make adjustments when moving around.

Pod smirks back, lifting up a book. “ _ A Caution for Young Girls  _ by Coryanne Wylde.” 

Her eyes go wide when she reaches for it. Pod thinks about lifting it up above her head, but decides that’s just mean and hands it to her instead. “I haven’t read that one since I was...well, a young girl.” Her eyes glint with mischief. “Father was furious.”

“Did he caution you?”

Jocie gestures to her stomach. “Didn’t work.”

Pod sits at her table and they talk about village gossip--Gele the weaver’s apparently gotten married during Steffen’s time away on the Progress. Then they talk about the books they’ve been reading. As a landholder’s daughter, Jocie had been taught her letters and had a thirst for reading that Podrick was happy to provide for. Once they’d both finished the same story, Jocie would make tea and they’d discuss their favorite parts.

They sit for an hour and talk about the last book they both read-- _ There and Back Again.  _ It was one of Pod’s favorites, but concedes that Jocie has a point when she says there were no ladies in it and therefore boring. After that, Jocie gives him a few satchels of the herbal tea she makes, and Pod continues to make his rounds throughout the village.

He stops by the smithy to check in with Ronard’s sons and Meg. All of them give him friendly reception, but it’s made clear that idle conversation doesn't have a place over bellows or molten iron. Pod drops off some flowers for Agnes, the tailor, who winks when she gets them. By the time he makes it back to the castle, the sun’s lowering and his stomach lurches in hunger.

Dag’s waiting for him. The little servant boy’s been Pod’s near-constant shadow now that Gendry’s away. Sometimes he’s as quiet as one, too. Always sneaking into kitchens when he’s not supposed to and pilfering from the larder. 

“Is it true!” He demands with all his twelve-year old authority.

“Is what true?” Pod asks, heading to the study so he can calculate some funds and be done with his tasks for today.

“That dickless Ronnet is comin’ here?”

Pod lets out a startled snort. “Where did you get that nickname?”

“They’re singing a song in all the inns.” Dag’s smile grows wide and toothy. “They say Ser Brienne went and chopped it off!”

Pod proudly smiles at that. He still doesn't know the specifics of what happened, but it sounds like Brienne walked away the champion all the same. “Yes, it’s true. You probably shouldn’t call him that while he’s here.”

“’m not  _ stupid, _ ” Dag says hotly as they walk toward Pod’s study and Dag’s room, both located in the same wing of the castle. “Why’re we having him at all?”

Pod decides to give the honest answer. “He asked.”

“Can’t you just tell him not to come?”

“I’d like to. But no.”

Dag shakes his head as they reach the point where they go down different halls. “Don’t get you highborns. Always deciding to do things you don’t like.”

Pod smiles, ruffling his hair in a way he knows Dag doesn’t like. “Goodnight Dag. Keep kitchen raids to a minimum, I’ll need to count up the stores one last time before they arrive in three days.”

“I promise,” he mumbles in a way that Pod immediately knows is a lie. But he lets it slide. This time.

\--

Pod’s nodding off at his desk when he hears the sharp rap of knuckles on the door. Blearily, he blinks and turns.

Rolland stands in the threshold of the study, looking unimpressed like he always does. “You eat anything yet?”

Pod yawns, dragging a hand down his face. “Midday.”

Rolland shakes his head. “C’mon then.”

Dutifully, Pod follows.

\--

The fire crackles warmly before them, the pair sitting at a low, small table in the kitchens. Pod nods in thanks as Rolland outstretches his arm to pour him some wine. He takes a drink.

“Not looking forward to them visiting,” he admits. Rolland always had a blunt, sometimes callous, way about him that reminded Pod favorably of Gendry. There was no need for pretense there.

“I imagine you’re not,” Rolland agrees, ignoring his food and drink as he stares at the fire. “Won’t be long now, though.”

“The Conningtons won’t be happy no matter what we do.” Pod flexes his fingers. They’re a little numb on the ends, perhaps it’s colder down here than he thought. He stomps his feet slightly, too.

“Aye, they won’t.”

The numbness doesn’t abate. Pod’s chest doesn’t hurt, but it seems like his heart is moving syrupy. His breathing relaxes. Too much. He can’t feel his hands at all now, and the one holding the knife drops it. 

_ Something’s wrong,  _ he wants to say, but the air isn’t filling his lungs enough for words.

“It will be over soon,” Rolland says, still not looking away from the fire. “This way is painless. A gift.”

Pod tries to swallow but can’t. Tries to move but can’t. His thoughts are moving slower and slower, but he understands what’s happening. The wine cup spills as his body doubles over onto the table.

He can’t. He can’t-

Rolland’s gaze snaps from the fire to his, and the last thing Pod hears is a voice that doesn’t belong to the Bastard of the Nightsong.

“A man had a name.”


	30. amberly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING** for someone experiencing a trigger and dissociation. the scene happens at the end of the chapter and begins after the asterisk (*)
> 
> -
> 
> it's been a minute :'| sorry for the delay, i hit a major wall with this and am attempting to climb over it again. on that note, v likely this is a rough chapter 8'|

It’s raining. Again. Gendry pulls down more on the hood of his boiled leathers, squinting as Rusty Horse sways a little more as he trots ahead--hooves sticking in the mud.

“We there yet?” He calls out over a few people’s heads.

Sandor and Davos sound off at the same time.

“Just a bit further, lad-”  
“Shut the fuck up about it.” 

Gendry sighs, the exhalation coming out as a little cloud. Just in case the rain wasn’t miserable enough, it was also getting colder. He hunches his shoulders forward. He hates being cold and wet.

And Mary Mertyns.

They had stopped in Mistwood, only about four hours out from Weeping Town. There a stewart received them, giving Gendry what had to be the shortest possible letter:

_ Lord Baratheon,  
_ _ Gone to Amberly. You’ll stop there anyway.  
_ __ Lady Mary Mertyns

While Gendry was relieved to not spend another fortnight somewhere, it was aggravating. 

As if sensing his brewing storm, Arya raises an eyebrow. “You’re still mad?”

“ _ No _ .”

“You didn’t even want to stay there.”

“I’m not mad.”

“So you’re mad about something you didn’t want to do anyway.”

Gendry clenches his jaw and glares.

Rusty Horse snorts. Because he’s a traitor.

-

He knew three things about this place. First, Amberly was home to both House Rogers and allegedly an amber mine. Gendry had handled the material once or twice when he assisted Mott forging decorative swords or armor, and hadn’t found it all that impressive. Not enough to name a town after, anyways. Second, Pod showed him that House Rogers had a sigil with a bunch of unicorns circling a maze like they couldn’t figure out how to get in it. Which didn’t make sense for a hundred reasons. Third, Arya had a relative there. Da’s aunt, or something. 

As they make their way toward the gates, Gendry tilts his head back to take in the towers, the hood sliding off and his face quickly covered in rain. The towers are short, squat things with crowns on the top that remind him of fat little kings. Little Roberts. When they cross through, there’s a row of people waiting for them. As one, they curtsy or bow and Gendry tries to shake the bad mood the travel and rain and cold and mud and hunger have caused.

It doesn’t work all that well when Mary Mertyns is the first one to greet them. Mainly because she has the balls to be cheerful. She’s old, hair in a long, white plait and Gendry can see the prominent veins in her hands when she affectionately pats Rusty Horse’s face.

“You’re a handsome one, aren’t you?” 

“Thanks,” Gendry mutters grumpily after a moment, arms crossing over his chest.

Mary looks up at him, and there’s a patient smile on her face. “That compliment would be for the horse, dear.”

Arya lets out a little laugh, which makes Mary’s attention turn. “And there’s a Stark girl if I’ve ever seen one.” Mary cocks her head at Nymeria, who cocks her head back. “Even without the wolf.”

The little laugh dies into a small smile, and Arya slides off Nymeria easily. The direwolf looks at Arya, then Mary, and turns around, moving at a trot back toward the woods. She’s done that a couple times. Arya said not to worry about it.

Mary presses her lips together, eyebrows rising as she sends him a measuring look. “Seems the roads failed to agree with our young Storm Lord.”

“He’s really not all that mad,” Arya deflects.

“Yes I am,” he insists.

And Mary Mertyns  _ shrugs.  _ “Isn’t any of my business what makes a young Lord mad these days. Not like there’s a shortage of them in the Stormlands.” She stands on the tips of her toes, attempting to look past them. “Now. Where is the most beautiful man in the Seven Kingdoms?”

Gendry’s scowl deepens. “We don’t have any beautiful men. And if we did, they’re not for you.”

Mary waves the back of her hand, like swatting away gnats. “Davos!” She sings out, causing Arya’s eyes to widen and Gendry’s jaw to go just a little slack. “Where are you?”

Davos walks up, thumbs hooked in the leather of his belt and a look on his face that Gendry isn’t sure to read as either amused or tired. Maybe both. Once he approaches, he inclines his head respectfully. “Mary.”

Mary steps back with a little sigh, as if to get the entire picture of him. Apparently she likes what she sees because she smirks and Gendry wants to leave. “Still married?”

“That I am.”

“Pity.”

Davos clears his throat. “I’ll be sure to pass the sentiment along to Marya. Dare to say she might agree with you.”

“Poor taste in that event.” Mary Mertyns straightens out her skirts and offers up her arm. Gendry frowns at it, wondering what she wants now.

“Achem.” She waves her elbow.

Davos lets out a dry exhale that’s almost a laugh. He threads his arm through Mary Mertyns’ and suddenly Arya and Gendry are all but forgotten as they walk through the gates.

He’s tired of everyone, but Arya’s hand slides into his and he feels a little better. Still mad, though.

-

Gendry doesn’t say it, because he’s not entirely stupid, but Branda Stark looks like someone dragged her out of the crypt and propped her up against the fireplace to scare people. She sits with her bony hands so close to the flame that Gendry wonders if her skin has stopped working.

“Branda, darling,” Mary Mertyns announces, moving to stand by her chair. “Your niece is here.” And, as an afterthought: “The husband, too.”

Branda wordlessly scoots her chair closer to the fire. “Which.”

“I think she has just the one. Don’t you?” 

Arya doesn’t respond, her eyes trained on the figure by the fire. “It’s Arya.”

A long silence. “Don’t know that one.”

Arya sends Gendry a careful look, he sends it back. After Greenstone, he’s more aware of how meeting family isn’t always a good thing. Finally, Arya seems to steel something in her spine, because she lets go of his hand and takes a few steps closer.

“Hi,” she says.

Branda slowly turns away from the hearth. Her features are hard to make out due to the shadows from the fire, but he thinks her eyes might be a pale color. Grey, probably. Branda doesn’t do anything but stare, and Gendry tenses when she lifts her hand up to grab Arya’s chin between her fingers. It’s not like how Stannis had grabbed his, rough and as though he were a horse to buy, but it’s close enough.

“This one’s little Ned’s alright,” Branda finally declares. 

Arya goes still. Gendry moves to step forward and that’s when Mary Mertyns smiles and rests a hand on his arm. He glares down at her, but her expression doesn’t change.

“You knew him?” Arya asks quietly. 

Branda gives a little hum, shuffling her shoulders so the heavy shawl hikes up. Arya hesitates, but then grabs the edge of the wool and lifts it into place for her. “How did one of Ned’s end up in the South?”

“Most of us are in the South now,” she says flatly.

“Like that bastard king.”

“ _ Jon _ .”

“Hmph.” Branda gestures. “Sit.”

Arya does, and Gendry goes to move forward again, but Mary tugs on the fabric of his shirt. “Why don’t we let them catch up, hm?”

“Catch up on what? They don’t know each other.”

“You’re the protective sort.” Mary Mertyns says with a little snort. “Rest easy. What’s Branda going to do? Rot on her?”

Gendry frowns. But when Arya doesn’t glance his way or do anything but sit, he reluctantly concedes. Pretty sure just a stiff breeze would do Branda Stark in.

-

He likes Mary Mertyns a little more when she meets Ronald. Immediately she strides forward, taking an inch from each of his cheeks and  _ pinches.  _

“Aren’t you just the spitting image of your father. As much of a wanker?”

Gendry watches from the window where he’s peeling an apple as Ronald scowls, fingers twitching at his sides in a way that implies he’s ready to shove this woman away from him. “ _ No _ .”

Mary Mertyns nods in approval, dropping her pinching to give him a quick pat on the cheek. “Good for you. I suppose you’re here looking for a wife, then?”

Ronald’s face flushes red. “What-?”

“Afraid to be the one to tell you, but most of the unmarried women here are about three times your age and unlikely to bear you sons--bastard or no.” She winks. “Which isn’t to say they wouldn’t be interested in  _ trying,  _ should that suit your interest while you’re here. No maids or virtue to be found in Amberly.”

Gendry lets out the ugliest snort as Ronald’s face, ears, and throat match the shade of his hair. If Gendry were a better person and Ronald was less annoying, he might be inclined to step in. But he wasn’t and Ronald was.

“I’m not looking to get married,” Ronald says in anger, stocky frame reminding Gendry of a brick wall as Mary continues to poke and prod at him.

“I am!” 

Both Gendry and Ronald start at Bruno’s voice as he walks in, a large barrel under each sleeveless arm and the wind from the window slightly stirring his hair. Gendry’s never seen a shark, but he thinks they’d react to fish much the same way Mary Mertyns reacts to Bruno Wylde. Maybe dolphins, too.

She drops her attention on Ronald like a hot pan, and the squire takes it as an opening to flee--making sure to send Gendry a last sour look. Gendry rolls his eyes, pressing down with his thumb on the blade to cut through the fruit in his hand. 

“And who are  _ you _ ?”

“Bruno Wylde?”

“Casper’s son?”

“One of them!” 

Mary sighs. “The second-most handsome man in the Stormlands, that Casper.”

Bruno blinks. “Who’s first?”

“Haven’t you eyes? Davos Seaworth!”

“That makes sense-”

Gendry’s leaving.

He pushes off the wall with his foot, chomping down on the apple and his departure completely unnoticed. This is probably the first stop where he feels like he doesn’t have eyes trained on his back. Not knowing what to do besides Lordly duties, and not wanting to do those, he finds himself walking down the halls of Amberly. No one’s around but servants, and they don't seem to know who he is yet because they move about their business. It’s nice, for no one to give a shit who he was. It's a strange feeling, since he's spent the majority of his life angry at the same thing. 

With tapestries and decorative weapon and armor sets covering its walls, Amberly’s pretty standard, as castles go. And Gendry can’t believe he’s reached a point in his life where he knows what the standard castle is. He aimlessly drifts until the apple’s gone, then pitches its core out a nearby open window. Gendry watches the people below, resting his forearms on the ledge as he lets out a sigh big enough his shoulders hunch.

“Enjoying your stay?”

He turns a little at Brienne’s voice and shrugs. “Worse places I guess.”

Brienne stands next to him, her gaze drifting down the hall as if looking for someone. “And the Lady Arya?”

Gendry shrugs. “With her old aunt or something.”

“Ah.” Brienne doesn’t move and so Gendry watches her a little more closely. She doesn’t look upset or anything, but there’s still something about her that doesn’t sit right with him.

“You good?” He asks.

Brienne closes her eyes slowly. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t seem like nothing.”

“Just...a feeling.” Her eyes narrow a bit as she stares at something far away. “I’ve sent some letters to Podrick about guard rotations.” Her brows draw. 

“And they’re...bad?” Gendry guesses, having no idea one way or the other.

Brienne lets out a long exhale. “I don’t know. I have yet to see a response.”

“Oh,” Gendry says, getting it now. “Don’t worry about it--Davos said he’s gonna send the ravens on to Blackhaven.”

“Podrick said that?”

Gendry rubs the back of his neck.

“I thought as much.” Brienne straightens her shoulders. “It can’t be helped when one’s travelling for months. But once we return to Storm’s End, I’ll speak with him about a more expedient way to relay messages. There’s only so much I want risked to exposure with ravens.”

“That’s not what’s bothering you, though.”

Brienne’s face tries to be carefully blank, but he sees  _ something  _ fighting against it. They lock eyes for a moment, then she dips her head. “I had best return to the gatehouse. To make sure the soldiers are well-settled.”

He frowns, but he knows more than anyone when it’s time to let a person the fuck alone. “Sure.”

She leaves without another word, and Gendry decides he’s going to go hide in the stables or something until Mary Mertyns loses interest in the party from Storm’s End.

-

She’s got her back to the door, but Gendry knows that doesn’t matter much with Arya. As he walks into the rooms they’re borrowing, he takes in the lines of her body. With any other person, he’d be able to guess at what a hunched shoulder or clenched jaw meant. Most times with Arya, he could do it too. But there are moments like this when the Arya he knows is replaced by the one he doesn’t--her face devoid of expression and movements automatic.

Gendry doesn’t bother to ask if she’s alright. Instead, he crouches down on the floor in front of where she sits. Needle’s over her lap--but he doesn’t see oil or a whetstone. She’s just staring at it. 

“How’s the hag?” He tries.

Arya blinks, and it’s like something slides off to be worn later. He watches as she unwinds in front of him--forehead softening, jaw relaxing. The corner of her mouth even tilts up a little. “Still alive.”

“Made one hell of a deal with the Seven.”

“No one makes deals with death.”

Gods, that moved to grim quickly. Gendry clears his throat, moving into a stand. “Hear any good stories, at least?”

Nothing changes in Arya’s tone or bearing. “No.” Slowly, she sheathes Needle. “She doesn’t remember much.”

He watches her carefully. Gendry would never claim to know everything about Arya, but he  _ does  _ know she wanted something out of meeting Branda Stark. And it sounds like she didn’t get it.

“She knew you were Ned’s daughter,” he offers slowly.

“The last time she was in Winterfell was almost forty years ago,” Arya says. Still level. Still flat. “And she never went back.”

“Why not?”

There’s something about the silence that follows his question that Gendry doesn’t like. And the feeling doesn’t get any better when all she quietly says in response is that she’s going to bed.

-

Arya’s getting sick. She hasn’t told him, but between hearing her cough and the fact that they’ve spent a solid month traveling through rain that keeps getting colder, it isn’t hard to figure out. 

“Should go and see the maester,” he says, interrupting her yelling at him as he tries to figure out how to use a shield right. He throws the thing down and steps closer to her, brushing her hair away from her forehead before pressing the back of his hand to it. Her skin’s warm and damp and he frowns.

Arya frowns right back. “For what?”

“You think I can’t tell if you’re sick?”

“I’m not sick.”

“Stop coughing on everything and go drink tea  _ milady _ .”

“I’m not sick-”

She doesn’t get to finish the sentence before Gendry rolls his eyes, grabs her under the arms, and hauls her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Her fists pound against his back the whole way to the maester, and whispers start immediately from onlookers, but at least she gets there. 

Gendry scowls the whole time the maester looks Arya over while she scowls at him. He’s less than pleased when the maester tells him Arya’s going to be confined to bed rest for the next few days. One, because he’s worried. You can be the greatest warrior alive and not have much to stop sickness with. And two, because bed rest is going to make Arya about as pissed off as a wet alley cat.  

He’s not wrong. 

“Fuck’s sake Arya, stop!” He yells as he attempts for the third time to tackle her back into bed. And not in the fun way.

She kicks at him and the heel of her foot catches him in the chin and  _ shit.  _ “I’m  _ fine _ -!”

“The bald man says you’re not!”

“Achem,” comes a light voice from the door that they both ignore.

“Get  _ off  _ you  _ stupid _ -”

“You’ve got a shit bedside manner, you know that?”

“Bedside manner’s for the maester to care about-”

“You know what I mean!”

“Ac _ hem _ !” The voice says with a little more force.

Arya stills, her hand pushing Gendry’s face away. Gendry turns, hishand grabbing one of Arya’s ankles and causing her to slide down the bed a little with the motion. 

Mary Mertyns smiles, holding something behind her. “I heard the Lady was under the weather?”

He’s pretty sure they’re sharing matching expressions of annoyance, because Mary smirks like she’s just heard a joke. She moves toward them, and Gendry and Arya stare at each other in a stalemate until Gendry reluctantly lets go of her ankle. A second later, Arya stops shoving his face.

“I brought some tea,” she says cheerily. As soon as she opens it, the smell is pungent and makes Gendry want to gag.

Arya, he notes with amusement, might be  _ pouting  _ a little. 

“Drink up,” he says, rubbing his jaw. Which is still sore from her kick. He’s got a mule for a wife.

Arya makes a sour face at him, and a darker one at the bowl in front of her. 

“I worked very hard on it,” Mary says sweetly. “Took the better part of the morning to make. Had to sit, hunched over the fireplace, for hours-”

Arya sighs and downs the entire bowl. 

About ten minutes later, she’s snoring and drooling into a pillow. 

“That should keep her down for about six hours,” Mary says matter-of-fact, clapping her hands together as though brushing dirt from them. 

Gendry doesn’t say thank you, but he does pull up the blanket and tightens it around Arya. That way it’ll take her an extra minute or two to escape if he’s not back before she wakes up.

-

The week passes, and Arya doesn’t get any better. There’s no shortage of people pacing outside her door, and eventually Gendry’s feeling prickly enough to start telling anyone not wearing a maester’s chain to fuck right off. Of them, only Sandor refuses to listen, so now they pace in shifts. 

It’s during one of Sandor’s that Gendry lets himself be steered to the kitchens for some food by Mary. They’re not alone--Branda sits at the end and Gendry presses his lips tightly together and decides to ignore her. He shovels stew into his face and grunts whenever Mary asks him anything. Eventually, she’s put off enough by his rudeness to leave with a throw of her hands.

Which just leaves him and the corpse.

Said corpse keeps staring at him. Gendry tears off a chunk of bread with his teeth and doesn’t face her.

“What?” He demands, knowing he looks like shit. He hasn’t slept much and there’s the start of a beard on his face.

“They say the little one’s sick,” she says.

“She’s grown,” he mutters in annoyance, using another hunk of bread to sponge up the remaining broth.

“The Stormlands are not kind to wolves,” Branda Stark observes. Gendry’s motions slow a little.

“It’s just a fever,” he grunts, trying and failing to smother the gnawing in his chest.

“Regardless, Starks don’t live well here.”

Gendry’s fist clenches and he pivots in his seat. “You’re holding on good enough.”

She grasps a mug of something between her hands and brings it to her lips. Gendry goes back to his food, intent to finish it so he can leave and not come back for awhile. Unfortunately, the hag wants to keep talking.

“I’ll never be able to return to the North. Not even its crypts.”

Fuck, he doesn’t care. “Fine.”

“Wolves can’t be kept from winter.”

“Don’t think anything’s kept from seasons.”

“She won’t be able to go home.”

“She can go whenever she wants.”

Branda watches him, grey eyes filmy. “She’ll resent you for it.”

“For  _ what _ ?”

“Marriage. Children. Whatever other cages you make.”

And Gendry’s done eating. 

-

When Arya stops arguing about resting is when Gendry truly starts worrying. She says her muscles and joints are hurting, and Gendry doesn’t have a lot of memories of his mother, but one of them is an open-eyed stare from a sick bed.

Davos convinces him at one point to take a walk, and he’s half out of his mind when he heads back to Arya’s room. Gendry’s steps are heavy and his eyes are burning as he approaches, soon hearing the muted voices of the maester and his assistants. They’ve been in there more and more the last couple days. Gendry knows without being told that they’re in the moments where the fever either breaks or it doesn’t. He refuses to think about one of the options.

Gendry doesn’t announce his arrival, since they’re all used to seeing each other coming in and out by this point. Sandor’s not there--probably out hitting things. He’s running a hand down the lower half of his face when his mind finally takes in what he’s seeing.

Arya’s laying on her side, curled up like she’s been the last few days, but otherwise still. One of the assistants is wringing out the cold cloth they’ve been laying across her forehead. Another one’s feeling the pulse on her wrist. Gendry’s ready to resume the routine of sitting next to the bed and feeling useless when the low light from the candles in the room flickers, catching on glass.

He frowns, eyes landing on a clear jar half full of murky water with some kind of black film on the bottom. The maester is focused on something else at another table, so it’s left unattended. Gendry stares, unable to move closer. His hands and feet go cold as the film at the bottom starts to writhe. As small, black tendrils crawl up and attach to the sides of the glass. (*)

All senses abandon him except for sight. Gendry watches the leeches then he looks at Arya, really  _ looks,  _ and sees a white stripe of cloth tied tightly above her elbow. Sees the assistant move from feeling the pulse at her wrist to flicking the inside crease of Arya’s arm with a finger and thumb. Arya doesn’t stir.

He tries to do what he’s been doing whenever he remembers the Long Night. Inhale, exhale. 

Inhale: wrists tightening red eyes   
Exhale: the smell of medicine low light from candles  
Inhale: small rows of teeth biting in back arching  
Exhale: the weight of hands on his shoulders muted calling of his name  
Inhale  
Inhale Inhale

Gendry doesn’t snap. He turns off. Someone else is picking up the glass jar, throwing and shattering it against the wall. Someone else sinks their fist into the maester’s gut, into the jaw of the assistant that’s holding Arya’s arm.  Someone else is slammed up against the wall with an arm pressed across their throat. Someone else hears the muted voice of Sandor Clegane snarling down at them. 

It’s all someone else. Gendry only sees white and feels nothing until it’s over.

-

The next morning, Arya’s fever breaks. The first thing she notices is Gendry sitting on the floor next to her bedside, arms covering his head and hands shaking while Nymeria rests her head on one of his legs.


End file.
